


Solitude

by lacemonster



Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Arguing, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Prison camps, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, labor camps, tyranny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 48,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: A retelling of Clark's early days in the Justice League and discovering the Fortress of Solitude with a Clark/Bruce twist.When Clark was a baby, he arrived in a spaceship on a farm in Smallville. Now an adult, Clark wonders about his origins, uncovering a fortress in the arctic that may contain the key information about his past. But as Clark discovers more about the wonders of Krypton, he finds himself disenchanted with his adopted planet. Meanwhile, as Clark struggles to balance his role as Superman, he finds himself scrutinized by Batman, who doesn't trust his alien powers.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was intended as a one-shot, but I decided to divide it up into 3 parts due to the length. There is nothing differentiating the parts, they're all part of one story.
> 
> The setting for this takes places in the early days of the Justice League. I wanted to explore Clark’s relationships with the other League members while everything was fresh and new. As such, Clark is a little more naive, while Bruce is a little more hotheaded. The premise of this story revolves around Clark discovering the Fortress of Solitude, and uncovering the secrets to his identity and past, as well as meeting the sentient Jor-El.
> 
> Some stuff is borrowed from canon. I took a lot of inspiration from For All Seasons. But for the most part, just consider it its own interpretation.
> 
> Okay. So. Wow. I can't believe I finally finished this thing. This was... hands down, probably the most difficult fic I've ever written.
> 
> According to Google Docs, I originally started this story in May 2016. That's not to say that I wrote this fic every single day since that time--but I think this is a clear indication of how badly I wanted to write a SuperBat fic. For whatever reason, this story kept getting put off or pushed aside for other fic ideas, but it was always a project I wanted to do. Finally, over a year later, I have finally finished this project and I can't express how happy I am.
> 
> This story is mostly a character study on Clark first, and a SuperBat fic second. Themes of isolation/alienation are some of my favorite themes to explore, and I feel this works with Clark very well. I wanted to tackle themes of racial identity, heritage, alienation, and things of that sort.
> 
> The start of this story is a flashback and then resumes into present day, as a heads up.
> 
> This story deals a lot with social injustices, and there's a part in this story that deals with a government that utilizes prison/labor camps, and the children who are affected by it. So please be aware of this. Aside from that, I don't think this story hits on any hard topics.
> 
> I edited this story entirely on my own so I hope there's no serious mistakes. I apologize if there are.

A breeze passed through the cornfields. All of the stalks lightly swayed in the direction of the winds, their leaves brushing against each other. The rustling of dozens, hundreds of leaves, all at once. The air whistling through the spaces between them.

Amidst the disturbance, a fly spun around, leaving a trail of buzzing behind it as the wings cut through the air. It landed on a stalk, its legs grazing on the surface with a thud. It rubbed its limbs together, the sound like two horsebrushes colliding, as each individual bristle on its hand rubbed against one another.

The wind blew again. The fly lifted in the air, its wings beating. The gust tore off pollen from a corn tassel, tumbling downwards towards the Earth, but landed on a leaf—the sound like a broom sweeping swiftly across a linoleum floor.

“Clark, are you paying any attention?”

“What?” Clark said, blinking.

There was a loud creak on the wooden planks as Pete crawled over to the end of the wagon. Clark looked up long enough to meet his gaze, the grating squeak of the metal wheels beginning to slow as Clark’s attention was diverted. He heard the tumble of the cart against the uneven earth, the crunch of the grass underneath the wheels, suddenly losing its rhythm.

“Ah come on, Clark, you missed my joke,” Pete said, sulking. Lana, from the opposite corner of the farm wagon, giggled. Clark heard the air brush past her lips before the sound could even follow. She shifted in place, the lining of her skirt rustling between the layers of chiffon and her skin.

“Sorry,” Clark said, smiling a little sheepishly. “I thought I—”

“You thought what, Clark?” Lana asked, sensing his hesitation.

“I thought I heard something,” Clark said, because he couldn't think up a lie.

“You're always hearing things,” Pete said, grinning. “I'm thinking you're starting to go crazy. You sure the heat’s not getting to you? I could help you push.”

“I think I got it,” Clark said. And he continued pushing the farm wagon up the hill.

They had done this since they were kids. It was always on the first day of summer—they'd take the old Kent farm wagon up to the top of the largest hill in Smallville. The hill was a long and steady upclimb, before sharply dropping off on the other side. Near the end, Pete and Lana always got tuckered out, so they'd make Clark push it up the rest of the way.

They did it every year so no one questioned his strength.

They made it to the top, the deep slope leading down into the country road. No cars were coming—the only ones who seemed to even traverse these roads were the Kents and the Langs, as this was their side of the country.

“From here, it looks like you can see everything,” Pete said, putting up his hand to shade his eyes.

“You say that every time,” Lana said.

“Well, it's true,” he said.

“Seems to me that it gets smaller every year,” Lana said quietly, her expression thoughtful.

Clark could hear the steady pace of her heart. He could still remember the first time he heard it, it was on that very hill. They were younger back then, his heightened senses still new to him. Her heart was hammering with excitement, a million miles an hour it seemed like.

It was nothing like that now.

His gaze lowered a little, wondering if she was still upset with him. She acted as she always did, but as hard as he tried to tune it out, he could catch the way her heart beat nervously every time they accidentally locked gazes.

He quickly climbed up into the cart.

“Come on,” she chided lightly, and if she was upset, she certainly did her best to maintain an indifferent impression. “Scoot your butts, both of you, before it starts dipping down the wrong way.”

They were eighteen. They had their summers, and their springs and falls and winters too. Clark crawled over to their side of the wagon, feeling it teeter unsteadily, and all their shoulders bumped against each other in the cramped space. It wasn't always like that—when they were kids, they could sit side by side without a problem, and Clark never felt out of place.

"1,” Pete said, who was always first.

“2,” Clark followed.

“3!” Lana cried out, and they all rocked forward together, the wagon tilting down the hill—speeding all the way down, on the road out of Smallville.

 

The Kents’ trademark barn was in sight. Clark, Pete and Lana walked side by side, pushing their wagon with them.

“This will probably be our last year doing this, now that Clark is going to be playing City Mouse,” Pete said.

“Oh, hush,” Lana said, walking into Pete to bump shoulders with him. She spoke so soon that there wasn't even a chance to let the inevitable loom over their heads. “It's not as if Clark is going to stop visiting. Besides, even college kids have summer vacation.”

“Smallville is awful far from Metropolis,” Pete said, humming.

“Zip it.”

“Wait,” Clark said, fixating on Pete’s words. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Did you just call me _City Mouse_?”

“Yes, I did. You know, like the City Mouse and the Country Mouse. You were a Country Mouse and now you're going to be a City Mouse.”

“That's not how the story goes, doofus,” Lana said, rolling her eyes, but she sounded like she was on the verge of laughing. “The Country Mouse goes _back_ to the country. He realizes that while the city has more opportunities, the countryside is safer. He doesn't _become_ the City Mouse.”

“That's not how Nana told it to me.”

“Well, your Nana’s wrong.”

“Stop bullying my Nana,” Pete said, and they all laughed. Clark listened to the sound of their laughing, their voices all mixing together as one, and listened to nothing else.

Pete had parked his dad’s truck at the Kent farm, where Clark dropped off the wagon. When Pete climbed into the truck, he looked at Lana expectantly.

“I think I'm going to walk back,” Lana said. Pete looked at her skeptically.

“You sure about that? Your house is on the way, it'd be no trouble at all,” Pete said, looking almost worried. Clark was wondering if he should encourage Lana to take the ride—it was getting late, and their houses were separated by several acres. She had to have been tired, especially after their wagon trip.

“I don't mind,” Lana said, shrugging.

“Alright, suit yourself,” Pete said, and Clark could detect the faintest trace of disappointment in his voice. Clark glanced away, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

Clark and Lana watched as the old truck hiccuped to life. The vehicle teetered back and forth over the uneven grass, pulling up over the gravel and onto the dusty road back into town.

“Lana, are you sure you want to walk back?” Clark asked tentatively when Lana began to cut across the yard toward the fields.

“Why?” she asked, glancing over her freckled shoulder. “Do you want to carry me?”

Clark wasn't sure how to answer that. Couldn't tell if it was a slight, a suggestion, or a joke. He couldn't decide which he would rather have it be. He responded with awkward silence but Lana didn't linger on it.

“You can walk with me, if you want,” she said, and he did.

The yellow sun was hanging low in the sky, the glare hitting them as they walked in the direction of Lana’s home. The sun seemed to glow through her hair—in her hair were strands of copper and auburn and brown and dark blonde. Each strand seemed to stand out under the last hours of sunshine.

Everyone always said Lana was a redhead. Clark sometimes wondered if that was all they saw. If to them, her hair was just… red.

She always walked in the fields barefoot, for as long as Clark could remember. Her legs were always cut up from branch scratches, her feet and ankles grass stained and dirty. This time was no different and she carried her Sharpie-decorated sneakers in her hands, the soles occasionally tapping together depending on how briskly she walked, the ground crunching underneath her callused feet.

Clark had his hands stuffed in his pockets. He could hear it again. A fly buzzing around. He wondered if it was the same one he heard on the hill. The buzzing was especially grating.

“Clark,” Lana said.

Clark looked up in time. He nearly crashed into Lana.

“What?” he said, startled. Lana looked at him for a moment, before shaking her head to herself. There was a smile on her lips but something distant in her eyes.

“Clark Kent, you're always staring at your feet, but your head is always in the clouds,” Lana said, smiling.

Clark forced a smile, hoping it'd ease his troubled mind. But it didn't. He had to know.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked. Lana’s smile slipped away, a look of thought in her eyes.

“I could never be mad at you, Clark.” She breathed, an air of laughter to it. “Getting mad at you would be like getting angry with a teddy bear.” Her brow furrowed suddenly, a thought seeming to cross her features. She slowly shook her head to herself, finally murmuring, “No, I'm not mad at you.”

“I never meant to lie,” Clark said. “I just wasn't sure how you and Pete would react.”

Lana looked at him. “About Metropolis?”

“No, the other thing.”

Lana looked unhappy. “So _that's_ what you think I'm mad about.”

“What else could it be?” Clark asked, but then he realized it the second that question escaped his lips. He averted his gaze, feeling heat rise to his face as he remembered. He could still recall the feeling as she pressed her lips against his—so soft and light they were hardly there at all.

There was an uncomfortable moment of them standing there, their mouths closed but their beating hearts filling the silence.

“When you showed me what you could do, I couldn't help but think of that time when we were kids,” Lana said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her red hair. “We had to stay inside of your house on account of a thunderstorm, and a _huge_ lightning bolt hit your Pa’s barn.”

Clark remembered. Ma had seen the fire first and yelled out. Back then, the Kents still had a horse.

“You and Pa Kent went out to fetch Clover. I remember that your Ma and I were so terrified when you two went in there,” Lana said. She trailed off, quiet for a moment. She looked up at Clark with soft eyes. “Were you even scared?”

“Yes,” Clark said, and it was the truth. He slowly shook his head to himself. “I didn't know what was going to happen to Clover or Pa—or you two, for that matter.”

“I see,” Lana said. She shrugged a shoulder. “You don't have to worry about me, Clark. I'm going to walk the rest of the way back home now.”

“I just didn't want you to go alone,” Clark said. At that, something changed in Lana’s eyes. The distance that Clark felt in them were gone, instantly sparking with something warmer.

“Oh, Clark,” she said with a heavy sigh. But then her face broke out into a sudden smile. She stomped her feet lightly, like a child. “I'm gonna miss you when you leave.”

Clark felt his heart lift, his smile following it, and Lana quickly threw her arms around him. She squeezed hard but Clark hardly felt it at all. He let his hands sit on her back.

“You're gonna be up there all by yourself!”

“Metropolis is a big place. I'm sure I'll be fine,” Clark said. “And I'll visit. Just call and I'll fly here—literally.”

She laughed against his chest, and when the laughter was gone, she just squeezed tighter.

“Okay, City Mouse,” he heard her whisper.

 

A siren off in the distance. A cat yowling. The clanging on fire escapes. Steam hissing from a vent. Aluminum cans dragging across scratchy cement.

Down the street there was the crinkling sound of old newspapers tied around a homeless man’s feet. Jingling in a jar. Further down, the low hum of a food truck. The popping and snapping of grease. Further yet, the swish of liquid followed by a woman cursing to herself in Cantonese. And amongst it all, just a roar of thousands upon thousands of voices talking. Yelling. Whispering.

“Smallville, are you even listening to me?” a voice said, amongst it all.

“What?” Clark said, blinking.

He looked over at his colleague, Lois Lane. It was nine in the morning, Clark hadn’t even stepped inside of the building of the Daily Planet, and she was already eyeing him with those sharp, fiery eyes.

“Are you going to move it or are you just going to stand there all day, blocking the door?” she said, looking at him. And while Lois claimed she wasn't a born-and-raised Metropolis girl, she seemed to speak the fast and snappy dialect well enough.

Clark listened to the hum of a siren—somewhere a few miles north. He quickly blocked it out, remembering the assignments he had waiting for him at his desk. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, I thought I heard something.”

“Someone snoring, maybe?” she said, eyes shifting to the side. Clark, more than a little embarrassed, quickly opened the glass doors for her.

They stood awkwardly together in the elevator. Clark still hadn’t quite broken the ice with Lois, even though they had been working together at the Daily Planet for a few months now. For that matter, Clark hadn’t really broken the ice with anyone. The new job was still a little surreal for Clark, who was still used to writing for tinier publishers. Lois, on the other hand, was around his age and as much of a junior reporter as him, and yet her confidence was unwavering and she seemed to fit in just fine.

Clark resolved to keep to himself as much as he could on the flight up, distracted by the whirring of the elevator. He heard a strange noise amongst it all—did the elevator in the shaft next to them break?

“Earth to Smallville. I’m _talking_ to you again,” Clark heard. He blinked when he finally noticed the hand waving in front of his face.

“Sorry, what?” Clark said, looking at Lois. Lois shook her head a little.

“You know, for a journalist, you're not very observant. I'm just trying to make small talk here,” Lois said. Clark could hear distant talking in the elevator next to them—someone was talking on the phone to the mechanics. Yup, that elevator was definitely broken.

“Oh, sorry, I was just distracted—”he struggled to come up with an excuse”—uh, your shoes look nice,” Clark said, unsure of what to say. He immediately regretted the words, realizing how awkward and creepy he probably sounded. Indeed, Lois seemed to eye him for a moment. But instead of disgusted, she suddenly looked enraged.

“Is that a jab?” she said, looking at Clark like she couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth.

Clark, bewildered by her indignation, stared with his mouth hung open in surprise. He quickly fixed himself. “Ah, no. Of course not.” His brow furrowed a little, confused. “Why would it be?”

She didn’t answer him, because in that moment the elevator dinged open and she was already practically out the door. If she was insulted, she had already forgotten. She tossed out what seemed like a hundred greetings a minute and Clark followed after her—their desks in the same area—at a much slower pace, trying to take up as little room as possible as everyone in the office ran in circles past him. Lois made it to her cubicle first, where Jimmy Olsen was standing in the entryway.

“Ms. Lane? I was told to give this to you,” he said, handing her a box. Lois stopped and looked at it and Clark, who had been lagging behind, saw the whole exchange. Lois, without skipping a beat, tucked her things under her arm and opened the box.

From the box, underneath the layers of tissue paper, she pulled out a pair of stilettos.

“Is this funny to you?” she said, waving one of the shoes in Jimmy’s face. Jimmy looked down at the shoe, and though he was clearly confused, he also seemed partly horrified at the prospect of upsetting Lois Lane. He seemed to eye the sharpened heel with particular unease.

“No?” he said.

            Lois sighed a little. “Who put you up to this?”

            Suddenly a head poked up from over Lois’ cube. “Morning, Sunshine.”

            Lois immediately scoffed. She tossed the heels back in the box and tried to pass it back over the cube to Cat Grant, but Cat waved her hand.

            “Keep it. From what I heard, you need them.” When Lois’ face turned red, Cat simply burst out laughing. “I can’t get a good look at your whole outfit from this angle—please tell me you’re not wearing those white sneakers in the office too.”

            “This is absolutely ridiculous. Why would I wear _heels_ out on the field?” Lois yelled, exasperated.

            “But you will wear a pencil skirt,” Cat said, grinning.

            One of the reporters passed by Lois’ cube and, without even looking at her, said, “Morning, Sneakers.”

“Oh ha-ha, very funny guys!” Lois exclaimed, loud enough for some of the neighboring reporters to turn their heads.

Clark, out of the loop, gently pulled Jimmy aside. In Clark’s time at the Daily Planet, the office-boy-turned-amateur-photographer was the only person he felt comfortable enough speaking to. “Are you following any of this?”

The teenager shrugged sheepishly. “I’ve long resigned to my fate as errand-boy, Mr. Kent. I don’t know a single thing that happens in this office outside of my orders.”

“You two apparently don’t do your homework. That, or you don’t spend enough time around the watercooler.” Clark and Jimmy both looked into the cubicle they were leaning against. Ron Troupe looked back at them from over his coffee mug. “Lois submitted her video interview yesterday.”

“Oh, right,” Clark said. He had been meaning to watch it but had been… busy. While he and Lois weren't on the best terms, due to her headstrong personality and Clark’s… well, not so headstrong personality, Clark did admire her work greatly. “She was talking about the story she was doing—something to do with the stripping of workers’ unions, right?”

“Yeah, she went out and interviewed Metropolis construction workers in-person. It’s pretty great journalism,” Ron said between sips. “But there’s more than quite a few shots of her climbing over construction sites—in a pencil skirt and tennis shoes. Social media had a ball with it. The editors had to talk to her about her fashion choices.”

“Does that really matter?” Clark asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It does when you’re on camera, I guess,” Jimmy said. Ron shrugged.

“More specifically, if you’re a _woman_ on camera. If that was me out there, you can bet people would just be impressed that I could walk on uneven ground without falling over, much less what I wore on my feet while doing it,” Ron said. He shrugged, turning back to his work. “But then again, it might not be such a big issue if she didn’t get so riled up about it…”

Suddenly a door slammed open, and all of the talking in the office came to a stop. There was a cessation of noise where the papers, phones, the keyboards, even the bubbling of the watercooler, seemed to go silent.

“Where’s Lane?” Perry barked.

Lois’ head popped out of the cube. “Good to see you too, Boss. Funny enough, I was just about to talk to you about a story revolving around work harassment—”

“I need you in here now,” Perry said, cutting her off. “There’s a story unfolding in Gotham. I’m going to see if I can get you down there.”

Clark could hear Cat whisper, “Make sure to double-knot, Lois.”

“Oh shut _up_ , Cat,” Lois said, and there was the sound of something landing on the desk. By Clark’s guess, probably the shoebox. Lois quickly scurried into the office.

Clark mentally told himself that he shouldn’t eavesdrop. But Lois also worked as a field reporter, and it seemed strange that Perry would suddenly call her in so urgently.

Sure enough, from what Clark picked up on, it sounded like a dire situation.

“...got a tip… some monster tearing up downtown… I'll have the helicopter ready to go, what I need you to do is…”

“Mr. Kent?” Jimmy said, interrupting Perry's voice. Clark looked at Jimmy, who was looking up at him questioningly. Clark must have looked like he was blanking out again.

“I—I have to go,” Clark said, taking a step back. He turned to Jimmy. “Can you tell Perry that I’ll be back? I just have to stop at my house for something real quick. I forgot—”

“You want _me_ to talk to Perry?” Jimmy said, eyes widening. “He’s not going to be happy if you’re skipping work.” The color was suddenly draining from his face. “And he’s _really_ not going to be happy if _I’m_ the one telling him—”

“I’ll be back!” Clark said, not waiting another moment, and he ran as reasonably fast as he could to the elevator.

 

The distance between Metropolis and Gotham took about forty-five minutes by helicopter.

For Superman, the trip was about five minutes.

He followed the voices, listening to their conversations for what streets to go to. He listened to people receiving phone calls from worried loved ones—picking up words of _downtown, by the courthouse, corner of River and Third_ —and his keen eye helped him the rest of the way.

He slowed down, cape waving through the wind as he lowered himself gently to the street. Immediately he heard new whispers.

_It’s Superman. Get a picture. Superman is here. Superman in Gotham? Superman will save us._

The whispers quickly were overtaken by other sounds. Superman turned his focus toward a loud crash. Layers of sounds pierced through his ears—smashing glass, pipes bursting, concrete and limestone tumbling, metal scratching.

There was a smell of something _putrid_ in the air. Clark turned in time, watching what appeared to be an enormous metahuman, hugely proportioned with clammy skin, tattered clothes and white, wiry hair. The metahuman had barreled through the corner of a building and was picking himself back up. Clark calmly, but cautiously, moved toward him.

Clark, who almost literally had dropped in on the situation, needed to choose his words carefully. The nearby destruction and screaming indicated that this person—if it was even a person—needed to be stopped. Still, calmly but firmly, he stated, “Sir, I need you to—”

Clark was cut short when the metahuman suddenly roared—a word, but not something Clark was sure he heard correctly—before picking up the nearest chunk of concrete and tossing it at Clark’s head. Clark blinked as the concrete struck his face and fell unceremoniously to the floor.

“I’m guessing you don’t know who I am,” Clark murmured, glancing down at the concrete that had burst into dust at his feet. It didn’t matter if he was known or not, the metahuman was now back on his feet. Clark caught a glimpse of his unhinged gaze. Clark didn’t hesitate when the man rushed toward him—he braced himself, unafraid for he had fought much larger things with ease.

Clark quickly learned, however, that the metahuman’s throw was not a good example of his strength.

Clark’s breath caught in his throat, and there was no time to think when he was quickly pushed back into a building. He actually felt pain in his back as he was slammed up against the wall, the impact cracking the bricks around him.

It was taking a great deal of Clark’s strength to push back and keep the metahuman at bay—if Clark was pushed any further, he’d probably break through the building. Not a good prospect, because at this strength, the building could easily be tumbled. Unable to slip past, Clark focused on one of the arms that kept him pinned. He felt the heat behind his eyes, followed by a flash of red across his vision.

The heat vision blast managed to sear across his opponent’s arm, creating a deep cut and a distraction long enough for Clark to duck under and gain some distance. But to Clark’s amazement, the chunk of flesh that had been burned began to bubble up. The appendage was restitching itself, healing at a miraculous rate.

Clark was temporarily thrown off, but not completely distracted. The metahuman, in a berserk-like rage, came charging after him, and Clark dodged in time. The adversary stumbled into a streetlight, which knocked over and landed on a car with a loud noise. The alarm was already screaming in Clark’s ears.

Before Clark could plan his next attack, he heard the sound of heavy fabric catching in the air—a soft, subtle noise, but something Clark caught nonetheless. He looked over his shoulder and found a familiar figure crouched on the post of a building overhead. Batman was alarmingly close—as in, Clark had to wonder when he had gotten that close, and why he had just noticed now.

“What are you doing here?” he immediately demanded. He didn’t raise his voice because he didn’t have to, Clark could hear him just fine and Batman exploited that. Still, Clark could catch the subtle inflection in his voice. He was _not_ happy.

Though, Clark wasn’t sure if he had _ever_ seen Batman happy.

Much like Lois, there was ice that hadn’t been broken yet. Yet another coworker that Clark hadn’t had time to interact with, and said coworker seemed perpetually unhappy anyways. The only proof that Clark had that the man was even capable of a smile was seeing Bruce Wayne’s image on television and photographs.

“I heard about the destruction and I came to help. Are you alright?” Clark called up to him.

Clark seemed to have asked the wrong question, judging by the way Batman’s scowl seemed to deepen. But then Bruce raised his chin.

“ _Behind you_ —”

Clark turned in time to see the attack coming but not fast enough to avoid. The metahuman’s massive arm came flying down. Clark raised his arms in front of his face to take the brunt of the assault but it hardly made a difference—he was planted into the ground. He heard metal breaking, followed by a rush of water—they busted a mainline. He could hear the metahuman muttering to himself in fury, words saying something about the days of the week that Clark couldn’t quite pay attention to because he was too busy becoming a single entity with the street. And getting splashed in the face with water—Gotham’s water, no less, that had a reputation for being tainted after decades of pollution and terrorists making a game of poisoning it. Clark almost sighed.

Clark heard something cut through the air, followed by beeping. Clark managed to grab the corner of his cape, raising it up in time as the exploding batarangs went off. The metahuman was temporarily distracted, so Clark kicked him off of him, sending the man backwards.

Clark moved in to deal more damage but he was caught by the arm.

“ _Stop_ ,” Batman said, baring his teeth. “Solomon Grundy has fast, regenerative powers—and he always comes back stronger. You’re wasting energy—he needs to be captured, not defeated.”

“Maybe I could freeze him—”Clark started, but Batman cut him off.

“Your help is _unnecessary_. I already have a magnetic field—”

There was suddenly a roar, grabbing Clark and Batman’s attention. Clark watched as the man, Solomon Grundy, was suddenly wrapped in golden rope. Clark followed the line, his eyes landing on Wonder Woman.

“Oh, _great_ ,” Clark heard Batman mutter in contempt.

Wonder Woman had a good hold on Solomon Grundy, even as he resisted, but Clark had learned that Grundy’s strength was as good as his, and therefore as good as Wonder Woman’s. The muscles in Wonder Woman’s arms strained as she struggled to hold onto the tied up Grundy. Grundy stumbled around, trying to break loose of the lasso, falling into the streets, cars, and bumping into buildings—leaving craters in his wake.

“You have to push him that way,” Batman said, suddenly turning to Clark. Clark looked at the spot Bruce was indicating.

“Why—”Clark started, but then his vision picked up something strange on the ground. He focused his vision to see through the streets and caught a glimpse of something like metal plates. He looked back at Bruce, bewildered. “How did you get weapons built _underneath the streets_?”

“They’re not _weapons_ ,” Batman said, a subtle hiss to his words. “They’re plates that create a magnetic field, capturing overpowered enemies like Solomon Grundy.”

Clark could hear the way Batman’s heartrate picked up. He eyed the Dark Knight skeptically. “Someone like Solomon Grundy, or someone like—”

“You decided you wanted to get into this _and_ drag the whole League into it with you. So if you want to help, _help_. Bring him onto the plates and I’ll activate the field—and don’t get caught in the mix of it.”

Clark frowned, feeling a weird sense of indignation. He hadn't called in the League, and Bruce made it seem like it was _a bad thing_ that they arrived. Clark had to wonder if Batman meant the final words he said—if he truly didn't want Clark to get caught in this highly suspicious trap that Batman had concocted. Regardless, Clark rushed over to Wonder Woman.

“Wonder Woman—”

“It’s Diana,” she said between gritted teeth. It was taking all of her strength to pull.

“We need to drag him over this way,” Clark said, but before he could touch the lasso, Diana lightly bumped shoulders with him.

“No, the lasso only obeys me. You could wield it but it would never work the same. I'll pull—and you send him where he needs to go,” she said.

“How?” he asked.

“Well, Superman _is_ known for his strength,” she said, and Clark had a feeling what she was getting at. Before he could confirm, she suddenly raised her voice. “I can't hold on much longer. Ready yourself!”

She let out a true warrior’s cry, pulling Grundy towards them. He was yanked back with such force that he practically flew. Clark prepared in time, winding a strong enough punch that sent Solomon Grundy right where he needed to go.

The lasso was pulled back and the field was activated. Grundy was brought to his knees.

Once captured, Batman walked briskly towards them.

“Are you alright, Batman?” Diana asked, wrapping up her lasso. She had sweat on her temple but made no move to wipe it away.

“I was _leading_ him into that field. Everything would have gone just fine if Superman hadn’t distracted him,” Bruce said at once. Both Clark and Diana drew back—Clark didn't expect that type of response at all.

“Me?” Clark said, blinking. “You’re throwing me under the bus?”

The vigilante didn’t relent. “I was very specific when I joined the League that _no one_ was to enter Gotham.”

“I just assumed you meant during the nighttime,” Clark said. Clark wasn’t sure how someone could make him feel so _stupid_ with just a single look, but however Bruce did it, he was damn good at it. Clark shifted in place, feeling uncomfortable underneath Batman’s gaze. Still, he wasn’t about to let some guy in a batsuit boss him around. “I felt that this was an emergency situation where I could assist. I’m not going to apologize for following my best judgment.”

Suddenly, Diana spoke up, “I think what Superman is trying to say is that we were worried. When the lives of civilians are at stake, it’s up to the Justice League to help. It would be irresponsible—cruel, even—to not respond to a dangerous situation such as this.”

“I know how Gotham operates. Trust me—having you two here only incites more violence.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed, feeling indignant. “We don’t _incite_ violence. If we did, then you wouldn’t _have_ a Solomon Grundy tearing up your streets.”

“Criminal activity has gone down significantly in Gotham because of Batman—”Bruce started.

“Which we applaud you for. We only—”Diana tried to cut in.

“Having you two catch the criminal makes me look weak—”

“Oh, so you’re upset that we _one-upped_ you?” Clark said incredulously. “Are you even listening to yourself? There were _lives at stake_.”

“No one died—I made _sure_ of that,” Bruce snapped, turning his head towards Clark. “What’s going to happen when you two leave today? Criminals are going to feel confident. They’re going to think I’m hurt, or lacking, because I needed to call the Justice League in to _do my work_. They’re going to think I’m crumbling and they’re going to be back on the streets, cockier than ever.”

“Or perhaps knowing that we will be here will intimidate them,” Diana suggested.

“Or they’ll take it as a _challenge_. Gotham is full of dangerous megalomaniacs who are just waiting for the opportunities to prove themselves.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that,” Clark said, narrowing his eyes. Batman ignored the slight.

“The last thing I need is Gotham’s most violent criminals acting like this is an arms race. I made my terms clear when I joined the Justice League— _no one_ touches Gotham but me. If I really need your help, I’ll call you in.”

“We were just trying to help—”Clark started, but he was cut off.

“I understand now that there was no reason to be concerned. Gotham is safe with you,” Diana said, and she bowed her head. “If it is alright with you, I would still like to place this monster under arrest, and take him to Belle Reve myself.”

“No,” Batman said sharply. “He needs to be returned to Gotham authorities, where he belongs.”

“Then I’ll take him there.”

“After all the additional, unnecessary destruction you two caused to this city?” Bruce said. Clark could hear the sound of the burst pipe behind him. The car alarm had come to a stop but everywhere around them were crushed cars, broken streets and lamplights, cracked sidewalks. All from the heavy hitting. Clark glanced back at Bruce, who was clearly trying to restrain himself from shouting any further. “No thanks. I’ll take him myself.”

“I’m not your enemy,” Diana said, looking tense. Her eyes were faded, like they were looking past Bruce rather than at him. Clark could pick up her heartbeat, hearing it steadily increase. She was getting angry but she was trying to remain graceful.

“I never said you were.”

“Then you have no reason to question me,” Diana said, taking a step forward. It wasn’t until that moment that Clark truly realized that Diana was equal to Bruce in height. But Bruce stared back, unflinching. Diana added, her voice a tad bit lower, “You’re so suspicious of me. And yet, of all of the Justice League, it’s you that I understand the least. Why so secretive?”

Clark caught the subtle inclination of movement in the corner of Bruce’s mouth. He almost frowned.

“My trap. My city. My problem. _I’m_ returning him,” Bruce insisted.

Clark could see in Diana’s eyes that she disapproved. But the Amazon princess kept her lips sealed shut, even took a step backwards. Bruce, without another word, moved toward Solomon Grundy—his cape flitting behind him. Clark watched him go for a moment before turning back to Diana, who was walking towards a few members of the League, who had arrived with her but had been standing at a distance, likely waiting to see if their help was needed or assisting civilians in their evacuation.

“Wonder Woman,” Clark said, catching up with her.

“It’s Diana,” she said.

“Right. Diana,” he said, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry that the conversation ended like that. For what it’s worth, thank you for helping me take that monster down. I know you did the right thing. I hope you won’t let Batman’s words get to you.”

At that, Diana seemed amused. “Do I truly seem bothered? If so, I think you’re mistaken. Batman doesn’t intimidate me. But in my time, I’ve learned when to fight—and when to submit. I know we both did what we felt was best—but Batman is an excellent addition to the League, and he is our teammate, and so for the sake of peace, I refused to argue.” Diana suddenly turned her head toward him. “You need more practice.”

“I know,” Clark said after a moment. Diana seemed infinitely wiser in comparison to him. She appeared to be his age but she made him feel like a child. Clark felt a slight flush on his face. “I guess I’m not… used to having teammates.”

“Oh, well, that too. I meant with your combat skills.”

Clark blinked twice. That was a first. No one _ever_ told him that he fought badly.

“If you learned how to fight properly, you’d be unstoppable,” she said. She smiled—it was a small, subtle upturn of her lips, but it belied a personality that he had never seen before. In a way, it almost reminded him of Lana, even though the two were worlds different. In a sense, literally. “If you ever need a mentor, I’d be more than happy to teach you what I know. I’m certain you’d surpass me in no time.”

Clark thought about Diana’s finesse in taking down Solomon Grundy. She hadn’t even been hit once. He tried imagining sparring someone of that power. For once, Clark felt physically intimidated. Smiling almost sheepishly, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not much of a fighter. My powers get me by well enough.”

“Do not apologize. There is no shame in that. Your gifts are a blessing.”

Gifts. Ma and Pa had said similar things. But to Clark, his powers were just a part of who he was.

“You seem to be in better spirits. Talking with Batman you seemed, well, a little frazzled.”

She frowned a little. Seeming to choose her words carefully, she said, “I’ve never met anyone like him before. Not on Themyscira, not anywhere on this planet. Yet, he is a useful ally, and has a brilliant mind.”

Clark chortled a little without meaning to. “‘Bless his heart’.”

She looked confused. “Excuse me?”

“Eh, nothing. It’s a bit of a saying here,” Clark said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Whenever you have something to say about someone, and it’s nothing nice but you mean them no ill will, you end it with ‘bless his heart’.”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar,” Diana said, her eyes lowering. She looked far too serious, as if trying to store this tidbit of useless information into her knowledge banks, and Clark felt a little embarrassed that he had brought it up.

“It’s just a little country saying,” he said, trying to shrug it off. For an example he said, “‘Bob is uglier than homemade sin. Bless his heart’.”

“Ah,” she said, a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

They caught up to the rest of the League.

“Need me to do some roundup?” Hal asked with a big grin, a floating green projection of a jail cell behind him.

“Batman said he will handle it.”

“Of course he will,” Barry said quietly. He added, “I guess I ran out all the way from Central City for nothing.”

“It's a good thing we had Wonder Woman to take care of things,” Hal said. He nudged Diana lightly with his elbow. “I know I can always count on my girl to throw around some overgrown zombies.”

Barry rolled his eyes. Clark nearly joined him—Hal always had a comment concerning Diana, for every mission they had been on. When Hal was finished chuckling to himself, Diana suddenly turned to him.

“Hal,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. Hal froze at the contact, then did a double-take on her hand, then looked back up at her. Eyes sparkling with kindness, Diana said, “You are hopeless, and I do not find you attractive in the slightest. Bless your heart.”

Barry made a strange, strangled sound as he tried to repress his laughter. Clark stared, eyes widening, a flush of heat rising to his cheeks. He felt secondhand embarrassment for having been the one to teach her that. But Diana simply walked off, tall as ever, unfazed by the reactions.

Hal stood there, stunned for a few moments. “What just happened?”

“Something that made the run worth it,” Barry said, still grinning.

 

Clark held his cape tight in his hand, preventing it from billowing in the arctic winds. He focused on his body temperature, keeping himself warm, and he trudged forward. Each step sunk his boot further into the snow, reminding him of old school days with Pete and Lana, sledding on the hill near the schoolyard.

Thinking about it, Clark almost felt homesick.

The winds were whistling fiercely, sweeping snow in front of his gaze, but he found the distant shape of his destination anyways.

He really needed to set up some type of marker for the entrance.

This was his fourth time visiting this building and he still was getting his directions mixed up. He made it to the doorway which was slowly becoming covered in snow, though the walls blocked off the winds well enough. He placed his hands on the frosted entryway, the ice quickly giving way to his warmed touch—and then, the surface seemed to glow as the hand made contact with the wall, as if acknowledging his touch, and the doorway opened.

The doors automatically shut behind him and then, everything went silent.

The air felt stale inside of the fortress. The interior remained immaculate, despite that no one had stepped foot in it for weeks, much less dusted, and the further he ventured inside, the more it came to life.

There was no electricity or generator hooked up to the fortress but it came alight anyways. He stepped down the polished, almost glass-like, stairs to the base level.

The high ceilings drew attention to one of the few objects in the room—a monumentally tall statue of a man and a woman who held up a world.

What world, Clark did not know. But he was certain that it was connected to the ship he arrived to Earth in, all those years ago, as well as the artifact he had found from space from which the fortress had unfolded from—both of which he had placed the remainders of into the fortress, against the closed doors that he had yet found access to.

Clark floated to the platform in the center of the room—an almost pedestal-like structure, surrounded by sharp, glassy crystals—placed underneath the shadows of the statues. On that platform, he picked up an object which had been a part of his ship, a nodule of sorts that fit perfectly into the platform, made of the same crystal-like material but with a rounded edge made of a different, almost golden, material. The bottom of the crystal was also emblazoned with the same symbol that Clark, and the statues of the man and woman, all wore on their chests.

The Superman symbol.

Clark was certain that the piece was the key to the whole fortress—that if he could figure out how to use it, he’d find the answer he was looking for concerning his origins, all of which were likely locked in those doors beyond. But the instructions—if they were instructions—engraved on the crystals of the platform was written in symbols he recognized from his ship but could not read or make sense of. He had tried on several accounts to activate the key—he looked over its surface for what felt like a thousand times, even tried seeing through it, tried listening to it, tried breaking it, blasting it with heat, freezing it, to no avail.

The first time he had made the connection between the piece and the platform, he had spent hours, upset and frustrated, trying to figure it out. But over time, he decided it was not something that could be rushed. His work at the Daily Planet, and as Superman, came first and second.

But that didn’t mean he never pondered over it.

Clark glanced over the piece once more before setting it back down. The puzzle wasn’t why he was there. Though he didn’t know the fortress’ purpose, he did know that it was the only place that felt quiet to him.

He found a lot of solace on the Kent farm, that was true. But there were still people. Animals. Plants. Out in the desolate arctic there was only the sounds of wind, and the inside of the fortress blocked out most of the noise. It was a silence that Clark had not experienced since he was a child, before he started to hear distant noises and people’s heartbeats.

When he first developed the heightened sense, he had trained himself to focus it. To block out all of the noise for fear of eavesdropping—not just on conversations, but the way he could hear a person’s heart skip a beat when they told lies. The way he heard Nana’s come to a stop on the floor above Pete’s living room. The way Lana’s raced when Clark showed her that he could fly and so much more.

And the way it hammered against her chest before she kissed him.

And for awhile, he had been okay at controlling it. He could turn a lot of the sounds into mindless background noise. It required concentration, and sometimes he lost focus or became _too_ focused, but for the most part, he had tamed the sound from a roar in his ears to something manageable. Ever since moving to Metropolis, though, he had to retrain that habit.

Metropolis was loud. Filled with people and life. Even to someone normal, it must have been overwhelming.

And then he had to take all of that noise and single it down to just what was around him.

And since becoming Superman, he also had to turn his training from blocking out noise to finding noise. Searching through seas of sounds to listen for distress.

Clark took a seat on the ledge leading up to the platform. He carried with him a bag, which he now opened up, pulling out papers. He had spent the last few nights awake in his apartment, restless between his work and being Superman, and all he wanted to do was _sleep_ but he couldn’t. There were people in Metropolis screaming, crying, at every hour of the day, and there was only so much time—even for Superman.

He needed things to be quiet for awhile. He needed to concentrate.

He looked down at the papers. All of the research and writings and Daily Planet assignments that he needed to take care of. Now that he was finally alone, he could just focus.

 

The Hall of Justice needed improvements.

It served its purpose well enough but many of the rooms were vacant or in the process of reconstruction. J’onn claimed to have been working on a better location for them, but he had yet to announce anything regarding the matter. Clark wasn’t quite sure what the martian had in mind, and while he didn’t necessarily seem secretive about the project, he had been quite vague in answering questions.

The Justice League gathered in their meeting room, which was still stuffed with unopened boxes and dimly lit from the half-installed ceiling lights. The only clear spaces were the table they were seated at as well as the front of the room, where Bruce had set up a series of monitors.

The advanced display could pull up just about any information they needed. Clark stared at the projected images with a small sense of unease. He tried to separate Clark Kent from Superman but it was difficult. The situation in the country of Markovia was affecting everyone on the planet, from all walks of life. It was hard to stay composed as Superman, knowing what he knew as Clark Kent.

Bruce was in the process of debriefing the situation in Markovia—from its political leaders’ crimes against its people to the refugee situation—to finally suggesting a change that involved the help of the Justice League.

In the middle of the lecture, a green projection of a hand suddenly appeared.

“Question,” Hal said, raising his hand.

“You don’t have to raise your hand,” Bruce said, frowning.

The light dissipated. “Exactly how deeply involved are we going to get? I mean, this is a foreign country after all. Wouldn’t a bunch of American heroes bum rushing a foreign country send off the wrong message?”

“The Justice League has no nationality,” Arthur said pointedly.

“Agreed,” Diana said firmly. Hal shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. He must have realized the mistake in his words too late.

“Which is a problem in itself,” Barry said, shifting in his chair. “We should be cooperating with the UN on this matter. Or… anyone, really. We’re free agents, currently. Isn’t that sort of dangerous?”

“It depends on how you see the situation,” J’onn said, seeming to be deep in thought. “The situation in Markovia is dire. And yet, no one has confronted the Markovian government—including the United Nations. If the Justice League alliances itself with any organization, the League then opens itself up to repercussions—we will be forced to cooperate, as opposed to acting on our feelings.” He tilted his head slightly. “Then again, perhaps that is necessary in order to create change. Perhaps being affiliated with the United Nations would change our agenda.”

Diana looked around the table. “Regardless on that matter, I do think we can _all_ agree that we cannot stand by while there are people in distress.”

“We won’t. But Hal makes a good point,” Bruce said, speaking up.

“Yeah. Of course I did,” Hal said, though he was clearly taken aback by Bruce’s agreement.

Bruce ignored him, continuing, “By dropping into Markovia, we could accidentally incite the fear of invasion. The last thing we want is Markovia targeting the United States or the Justice League, which is why I’ve come up with a more covert way of assisting the people of Markovia. There’s a group of volunteers working on the Markovian border, assisting refugees. Refugees run into a series of problems when fleeing the border—not just the risk of capture, but getting to the border itself.” He turned to the screen, bringing up the display. Images of injuries suffered by runaways were pulled up—mangled limbs, bleeding faces, charred skin, all results of blast damage. “Surrounding the Markovian border are landmines. Any Markovian that hopes to escape the country must pass through the minefield. The very prospect alone prevents many Markovians from even attempting to leave.”

Clark heard the subtle sigh pass Diana’s lips. It sounded almost mournful. Everyone in the room’s heartrate moved erratically at this reminder. This was not news to Clark—he was covering a story on the Markovian refugees. The landmines deterred most people from even thinking of escaping, yes, but there was more to it than that. He had heard stories of people crossing rivers in the dead of winter and falling through the ice, in hopes to getting to the country on the other side. Of people getting robbed at the border—or kidnapped. Of people picked up by Markovian authorities, forced into prisons and camps.

“We can’t deactivate the bombs without stepping onto Markovian territory,” Bruce said. “But, hypothetically, we could locate the bombs and draw a map of sorts to help refugees pass the final part of their escape _safely_.”

“What about the people who can’t make it to the border?” Clark asked, frowning. “I mean, we’re just eliminating a single threat. What about the people starving, or the people who get taken advantage of when they’re trying to pay for passage, or—”

“I have already gone ahead and sent the volunteers the supplies they need to maintain refugee camps, including better access to running water and food—”Bruce started.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that with our powers, we could easily slip into Markovia and help refugees escape, without worrying about all of Markovia’s traps.”

At that, Bruce frowned deeply. “You mean with _your_ powers. Your powers that, you just announced to everyone, that you intend to abuse.”

“Abuse?” Clark repeated, drawing back. _This guy_ , he thought, annoyed. Clark couldn’t even breathe without Bruce having an objection. “There are people dying and being tortured—”

“Then why stop there?” Bruce said. “Why don’t we just send in Superman and Wonder Woman to assassinate Markovia’s tyrannical leaders—”

“Oh come on, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Bruce—”Diana started, frowning.

“You just told me that you not only have the power to sneak past a country’s safeguards to enter illegal territory and bypass its military, but that you also would _willingly_ do it.”

“It’s a _suggestion_ ,” Clark said.

“It feels like a _promise_ ,” Bruce said, voice rising. After a moment of pause, he recomposed himself, his voice dropping to its regular volume. “I’ll give you credit for one thing: you have more strength than anyone on this team, and probably anyone in the world. But that type of power does not mean that you’re _limitless_. Just because you _can_ , doesn’t mean you _should_. The last thing the world needs is Markovia trying to aim a nuclear weapon at _Superman_.”

“This is why I hated group projects in high school,” Barry murmured. “No one ever agrees.”

“Is that what really bothers you? That Markovia would fail to stop me?” Clark asked, not tearing his gaze away. “Or are you just afraid that you can’t control me?”

From across the table, Bruce just looked him in the eye.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Bruce said, and Clark believed him.

“We _should_ do more,” Arthur said, butting in and trying to get things back on-topic. Clark let him speak, though he could still feel his heart racing in anger. “Sanctions must be respected. But considering the situation, I’m not sure if this aid will be enough. We’re capable of doing so much more.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this more in a few moments’ time,” J’onn lightly suggested. “It’s been a long briefing. Everyone is tense—and also tired.”

Telepathy wasn’t necessary in determining that everyone in the room was on-edge concerning the Markovia situation. Clark was almost certain that another argument was going to arise but Diana suddenly stood, leaving the room first. Clark’s gaze lowered, still feeling heated, but he briefly remembered the last conversation he and Diana had. The importance of peace. Mouth shut, Clark also got up.

For several minutes, he wandered around the long corridors—finding it a bit easier to pace on foot. What bothered Clark most was that, while he was deeply upset, Bruce was probably completely unaffected by the conversation. He was probably just… strategizing some way to make sure Clark didn’t sneak off into Markovia. Clark shook his head to himself, continuing to walk—he needed to cool down.

The Hall of Justice was a large building, mostly unfurnished, and yet Clark couldn’t shake off the feeling of being trapped in the space. In times like this, he normally thought about Smallville—usually paired with a sense of homesickness and longing. This time, instead, he thought about the fortress in the arctic. With all the recent days he had spent at war, and all the days spent talking _about_ war, he was in dire need of some peace. Lately, he only found that in the fortress.

Before he could turn a corner, he heard some talking.

“The problem is that they don’t know about _rules_ ,” a voice said. Hal’s voice. “You and I? We get it. We’re cops. You with your forensics, me with the Corps. We _have_ to do things by the books. But people like Arthur and Diana? They’re royalty. They don’t have to listen to _anybody_.”

“I agree with you. But we can’t narrow it down that simply,” Barry’s voice responded. “When I put on this costume, I’m not Barry Allen anymore. I’m not a forensics analyst, I’m the Flash. And when that happens, I have a responsibility to do what regular people—what cops— _can’t_ do. Think about your life before the Green Lantern Corps—weren’t there things around the world that you _wished_ you could change, but knew you couldn’t? And now you have the power to make that difference.” A heavy sigh. “I don’t know. I guess I just think it’d be a damn shame to not take advantage of that.”

“But there’s a line that needs to be drawn. We have the power to make a difference—but difference doesn’t necessarily mean _good_ or _bad_. We could make things worse.”

“I think Arthur and Diana will be willing to negotiate.”

Clark could hear their footsteps approaching, sweeping the faintest trail of dust on the floors. Clark thought about disappearing down another hall and focusing his hearing elsewhere.

“What about Superman?” Hal suddenly asked, making Clark pause.

“What _about_ Superman?”

“I mean. He and Batman looked like they were five seconds away from throwing down,” Hal said, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

“No disrespect towards Batman, but he seems like he’s five seconds away from throwing down with _anyone_ ,” Barry said. Quieter, he added, “Wouldn’t be surprised if he hates all of us.”

“Yeah, but not as much as he hates Superman—”

“Because he knows he can’t control him,” Barry said simply.

“It is a little frightening—where do you suppose he _gets_ all of those powers anyways? I’ve never seen anything like it. Heat vision, frost breath, super strength, invulnerability, x-ray vision—”

Hal was forced to a stop when he and Barry turned the corner, where Clark was still standing. Waiting.

“Heightened hearing?” Clark suggested, when Hal blinked up at him.

“Whoops,” Hal said under his breath.

“It’s nothing personal, Clark,” Barry said calmly.

“It’s not,” Clark said after a moment, gaze lowering. “I can’t argue with what’s true. I suppose I just never thought I’d _scare_ people—not since becoming Superman, anyways. Before Superman, I was always unsure of how people would react if I told them the truth about my abilities. But Superman has been a mostly positive experience.”

“You save lives,” Barry said, unflinching. “You represent hope for a lot of people.” He shook his head a little to himself, looking conflicted. “I do believe, deep down, that you’re on our side. Anyone who is afraid of that has something to hide.”

Clark wondered briefly what Barry’s true opinion of Bruce was, but in the end, he could only sense uncertainty in the speedster.

“But that being said, I _am_ still curious,” Hal said, butting back into the conversation. “Where _do_ you get your powers?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Clark said, brows furrowing. He thought briefly of the fortress and his mouth opened, ready to speak, but then he shut it. He hadn’t thought to tell anyone in the League about the fortress, and how it may have contained the secrets to his origins. He wasn’t, however, quite ready to divulge that information yet. The fortress was the closest thing to privacy that Clark had felt in years. “I do know that when my parents found me, they found me in a spaceship of sorts.”

“Spaceship, huh?” Hal said. His eyes widened and he seemed to view Clark with new eyes. “You must be an alien then. But what species? I’ve never seen any species so close to appearing human—unless you can disguise yourself, in the same way J’onn does when he acts as a civilian. And I definitely haven't seen anyone with your array of abilities.”

Clark felt suddenly uncomfortable—the word _species_ was making him frown. It was the accurate term, yes, but it still made him feel… nonhuman.

And the suggestion that he was disguising himself to _appear_ human—

Then again, he supposed he wasn’t human. And there was nothing incriminating in the word _species_ itself, even humans were a _species_ , so Clark had to reel back his personal feelings.

“I have no idea,” he finally admitted.

“I could find out, if you let me scan you,” Hal said.

“Scan me?” Clark repeated, raising an eyebrow. Hal lifted his fist, showing his ring.

“Yeah, with the power ring! It’s infused with the knowledge of Oa. I can scan anything and the power ring will tell me what it knows! It helps on space missions, when I travel to foreign planets. It’s like a super encyclopedia in one tiny package—Google on space steroids.”

“Look at you, being helpful,” Barry said. He crossed his arms, smirking, but his voice betrayed a lightheartedness.

Clark’s heart began to beat a little faster at the prospect of getting the answers for the questions he had always wondered. But a small part of him was afraid he wouldn’t like what he found out. He reluctantly asked, “Will it hurt?”

Hal snorted a little. “Says the guy who can crash through buildings and deflect bullets.”

At that, Clark slowly nodded. Hal had a point.

“Let’s give it a try, then.”

“Alright. Power Ring, analyze Superman’s biology for me.” Hal pointed his fist in Clark’s direction. Green light projected from the ring, moving across Clark from head to toe. Scanning for information. At the end of it all, a strange voice spoke.

“ _Unrecognized_ ,” the ring said. At that, Clark blinked.

Hal frowned. More firmly: “Power Ring, analyze.”

Again, the ring scanned Clark. “ _Unrecognized_.”

“Huh. Weird,” Hal said, looking down at the ring. He looked genuinely concerned. “It’s... never said that before.”

“Could it be broken?” Barry asked. Hal scoffed.

“My power ring is not _broken_ ,” Hal said, indignant. “It’s made from advanced, magical technology. It’s just—”

“Not working,” Barry finished for him, smirking a little.

“I’m going to punch you.”

 _Justice League_ , a voice said. But it wasn’t quite a sound—it was more like a thought, inside of Clark’s head. By the looks on Barry and Hal’s faces, they felt it too. It was J’onn and his telepathy. _Please return to the briefing room in five minutes_.

“Ugh. Hate it when he does that,” Hal said, grumbling. But instead of waiting around, Hal immediately started to head toward the direction of the meeting room. Clark went to follow but felt a hand pull on his arm.

“Hey, I hope you meant it when you said that you didn’t take our words too seriously,” Barry said. Clark looked at him, feeling a sense of surprise that Barry would be concerned. “If there’s one thing I’ve also learned as a cop, it’s that teamwork doesn’t come easily—but it’s necessary. If we can’t trust in each other, what can we trust in? We’re teammates—you, Bruce, Hal, all of us—even if we can’t personally agree on everything.”

In truth, Clark hadn’t quite recovered from the conversation. Not just the parts he had overheard, but all of it. The mystery of his origin deepened, and it was becoming more and more of a reminder that he wasn’t quite the same as everyone else. Still, he looked at Barry, and saw a sense of trust in his eyes. Clark slowly nodded.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clark said. As they started to head back to the briefing room together, Clark tried to think of what to say. “You’re from Central City, right?”

“Grew up in the suburbs originally, but yeah. Moved to the city when I got older and I’ve been there ever since,” Barry said simply.

“Do you know if _Tony’s Pizza_ is still around?”

“Definitely! But they moved. They’re on the east side now,” Barry said. He looked at Clark with a bit of surprise, as if seeing him in a new light. “So you’ve been to Central City before?”

“My parents and I would drive up there every other summer.”

“Drive?” Barry repeated, blinking. “Central City is a hell of a drive from Metropolis.”

“Oh, this was back when I was living in my hometown. Smallville.”

“Smallville? Where the hell is that?”

“Kansas.”

“You’re shitting me,” Barry said, grinning. “Superman’s a Midwestern boy, like yours truly? Wow. I mean, I sometimes wondered, based on how you talked—it seems like everyone from Metropolis speaks a thousand words a minute—but I didn’t figure…” Barry just shook his head to himself, smiling. “I gotta admit, it’s nice knowing there’s a small town guy on our team. I mean… all those other guys, they’re not from around here. Arthur spends half of his life in the water. I’ve had Diana explain to me twice where she came from and I still don’t get it. J’onn is a _Martian_. Bruce and Hal are from the coasts, which might as well be foreign countries and planets to me. But guys like me and you—we’re just hometown heroes.”

At that, Clark finally smiled.

It felt good, breaking the ice.

 

The fortress came alight. Clark immediately moved to the platform, lifting up the nodule from the platform. He turned it over, staring at the emblem on it.

Clark’s brow furrowed. The object fit in his cupped hands, and was light as a feather. For such a small object, it had caused him a lot of grief and sleepless nights.

He just wanted to know the truth.

Wherever Clark was from, it was far in the outreaches of space. Perhaps not even from this universe at all. Somewhere so far that Hal’s ring, which could scan just about anything, couldn’t even _guess_ where he was from.

But when he looked down at the key, it looked the same as it always had.

Clark slowly paced around the room, passing the key back and forth in his hands. He looked down at the object in his hands and, in the process, caught the reflection on the polished surface of the floor. One of the faces of the monumental statues, looking back at him.

Clark stopped in his tracks, staring back at the face for a moment longer. He felt a slight twisting in his chest.

The statue of the man and woman were made of a material that Clark could not trace in all of his research—a type of hard stone, it seemed like, but with the luster of gold. He had looked over them as many times as he looked over the key, trying to find some traces of a hint that could help him figure out how to open the doors of the place. The statues were just as answerless.

Clark slowly rose up through the air, stopping before the faces of the statues. He looked into their faces long and hard, studying each and every feature, finding them startling familiar—particularly the man’s.

The browline, the shape of his nose, the cheekbones and jawline—it was like looking into a mirror. The similarities belied something of a racial connection, in more ways than the shield that was engraved on the key and their chests. Somehow, some way, Clark knew he was connected with these people.

At that thought, Clark paused.

He looked down at the key in his hands. The bottom of the crystal had a material that was of the same stuff as the statues, that goldish color minus the red.

Clark’s brow furrowed slightly as he studied the emblem on the key. Maybe he was crazy for thinking this, but at this point, he was anxious to try anything.

He placed his thumb to his lips—and bit. A knife would never do—not that he had carried one—but his teeth were stronger than his nearly-invulnerable skin. Clark caught a faint taste of the heated, bitter blood as he pierced the skin.

He smeared his thumb over the surface of the emblem, leaving a trace of his blood—his DNA—onto the object. There was no response from the key but Clark lowered himself to the platform anyways. He placed the key back into its slot—the stained emblem facedown, as it was meant to fit.

He waited, hopeful despite the doubts that plagued his mind, but there was no response from the key or the platform.

Clark didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he sighed. He knew he was taking a shot in the dark but with the way that the rest of the fortress seemed to respond to his touch, he thought that maybe the key would respond to his biology as well.

At this point, Clark was ready to bury the project. He spent more time thinking about this place than he spent writing, and he barely slept but when he did—he dreamt of this place more than he dreamt of Metropolis or Smallville. He was more invested in a mystery than what he _knew_.

He knew he was Clark Kent, a farm boy from Smallville, Kansas. He was adopted and raised by Jon and Martha Kent. And whoever he was before that was a world away, a world beyond him. Now he was just a journalist, and he loved his work, and he loved helping people with both his words and his powers, and that was all that mattered. Perhaps he’d never know the answer to his origins—but he didn’t need the validation of an ice fortress.

He was done with being the guy whose eyes were always on his feet and his head in the clouds.

Suddenly, Clark noticed something in his peripherals. He looked up, saw light travelling underneath the glasslike surface of the floors. Spreading like a flower coming into bloom, with the platform as its center, moving outwards. Clark’s eyes followed the trail as it reached the doors, which opened upon contact. Nearly soundless.

Clark blinked, momentarily stunned. He moved toward the nearest door but before his feet could even lift off the ground, a voice spoke. It was a neutral sounding voice that seemed to permeate from every reach of the fortress, in words that Clark didn’t understand and yet sounded so familiar that he almost felt like he _could_.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” Clark said, and he felt genuinely sorry even though he wasn’t even certain he was talking to anyone. A thought crossed his mind, wondering if perhaps he had done something wrong—if he should leave, considering this place was far beyond his understanding.

He wondered if this place was capable of hurting him and suddenly, he felt vulnerable.

He breathed in, trying to calm himself, and tried to pinpoint exactly where the voice was coming from but after he spoke, there was a sudden cessation, the silence cutting in almost midsentence. Clark listened carefully, anticipation in his chest.

 _Kal-El. Last Son of Krypton. Born to Jor-El and Lara_ , the voice suddenly said, resuming its speech in English. And yet the voice seemed to echo of many.

“Jor-El and Lara?” Clark repeated.

Something flashed before Clark—a mixture of blue and white light, forming a projection. A projection with no true source. It floated in the air directly in front of Clark’s face, making him draw back in surprise. As he stepped back, he suddenly shifted his gaze around the room. His heart began to race faster. All around him, one by one, another after another, similar projections appeared. His gaze stopped and fixated on one—and he cautiously approached it, almost in disbelief. He stared at the image of planet Earth, sitting side by side with what appeared to be dozens of planets that Clark didn’t know the names of. Planets he had never seen or even imagined existed.

_Of all the planets with yellow suns catalogued in your ship’s coordinates, you have appeared to have landed on the planet Earth. I have catalogued as many of the languages I could from each planet. These languages were studied from afar, compiled from research gathered of other outerworld species. For the most effective communication, however, it would be best to communicate using Kryptonian—_

“Wait, slow down,” Clark said. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly stressed. His mind was reeling at all of this new information at once. It wasn’t just the terminology—these names and places he had never encountered—or the sudden realization of all these unexplored planets _existing_. What threw him off the most was the personal pronoun—this voice had an identity, and _knew him_ , or at least knew about him. Clark had so many questions.

_May… we… please… speak… in…_

“No, I didn’t mean _slow down_ in a literal sense,” Clark said quickly, shaking his head. “I just—I mean, can I at least know _who_ I am talking to?”

There was a pause. The projections of the planets then moved through and around Clark, all collecting into a single entity. Clark stared at the blue and white image before him—an image of a man just barely under his height and was instantly familiar.

“You are speaking to the sentient projection of Jor-El, from the house of El, born to Jor-El I and Nimda, son to the city of Kryptonopolis and a scientist. This projection is infused with his knowledge and memories.”

Clark’s gaze shifted from the image to the statue. They were identical. He finally had a name. “Exactly _how_ sentient are you?”

It was a vague description. There wasn’t anything physical about the person in front of him—in fact, Clark easily saw through him. The person who identified as Jor-El seemed almost ghostlike. But at Clark’s words, the projection reacted—his brow furrowing ever so slightly, indicating an almost human reaction. But there was no heartbeat to match with the emotion to prove he was real.

“It’s difficult to explain how the technology works without an understanding of Kryptonian engineering—or even without knowing of Krypton’s geology and materials. All I can say is that the real Jor-El is certainly dead, but while I know that I am synthetic, being fused with Jor-El’s intelligence and memories, I almost…” The image trailed off. The glowy eyes seemed even more mysterious as they looked into Clark’s—and yet, Clark could sense something deeply emotive in them. “And yet, I still feel a reaction when I look at you, overjoyed in knowing that you survived.”

With the voices pulled from a resonance into a single source, Jor-El seemed almost quiet.

“You don’t know who I am.” It wasn’t a question, Clark realized. Jor-El continued, seeming to change the subject, “Where’s Kara?”

“I’m… afraid I don’t know who that is,” Clark confessed.

“I see,” Jor-El said, gaze lowering.

Clark wondered at the deep disappointment in Jor-El’s voice. But Jor-El lifted his gaze from the ground, back up at Clark. There was a shift in the projection’s face.

“You must have been terribly lonely.”

Clark felt a sudden loss of words. Jor-El suddenly turned his gaze upwards, toward the world that the statues held. Each statue seemed to be holding a hemisphere of the planet, lifting it together almost with a sense of pride and honor.

“That is the depiction of your home planet. This fortress unfolded from the Eradicator, as you well know, or we would not be speaking at this very moment.” Jor-El and Clark both turned their gaze to the humanoid artifact standing side by side with the ship. “That artifact was tasked with the preservation of Krypton by your ancestor Kem-El, and repurposed by my hand to serve as a house to this fortress which contains my artificial intelligence as well as the remainders of Krypton, before it was destroyed.”

At this news, Clark’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t the type of story he had been expecting—he finally learned the name of where he came from, only to discover that it no longer existed. It was hard to mourn what he had never known, but it was still a difficult concept to swallow. “Destroyed? By who?”

“By no one’s fault except the Kryptonians,” Jor-El said, turning back to him. “The planet was rapidly collapsing into itself, all because Kryptonians had developed far too advanced and dangerous technology to fight its civil wars—but that is far too much history to go into. In relation to your story, I can say that I spent years studying Krypton and developing a way to evacuate the planet—but my colleagues did not agree with my research. When the time came, I knew I had to at least spare you. You were but an infant, and I felt a great desire to spare you of the crimes of your ancestors, and so I developed a ship that could help you escape. It was highly experimental—but I’m glad to see that Lara and I succeeded.”

“Me?” Clark repeated, frowning.

“Yes. You are the sole survivor of Krypton.”

“I got that from what you’ve been saying but—why? Why me?”

“Because you’re my son.”

Clark stared, unbreathing. Jor-El moved on.

“Your given name is Kal-El. _You_ are the Last Son of Krypton.”

Clark’s mind blanked, trying to process this information. He had so many questions but couldn’t think of a single one. The first place his mind did travel to was Ma and Pa—and the thought of them suddenly filled him with an overwhelming sense of emotion, indescribable and yet reminiscent of fear, anxiousness, and sadness.

He had always known that he wasn't from Earth. And yet, to hear that confirmation from someone—his _father_ —was suddenly too much. He felt guilt for feeling that way, especially when Jor-El seemed to be observing his reaction with a subtle disappointment. This was what Clark had asked for—everything he had ever wanted to know—but learning the truth felt far too heavy.

Mindful of Jor-El, Clark closed his eyes for a moment to recompose himself, and forced himself to straighten. He looked at Jor-El again. “I found the artifact—the Eradicator, as you called it—completely by coincidence. I was… in a dark place, emotionally. I was trying to exile myself from this planet, when the Eradicator tried to destroy Earth. In order to stop it, I threw it into the arctic, where it finally unfolded. Knowing this, I can’t help but question your story. How do I know if I can trust you?”

“The Eradicator was programmed by Kem-El to preserve Kryptonian culture and destroy all others. I have worked hard to change that, but it seems in the time that the Eradicator and I have been separated, I could not maintain my control over it. For that, I apologize.” Jor-El paused, seeming to consider Clark’s words. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any proof. You can only trust in my word.”

Clark did.

“Perhaps this is too much information. This is not how I expected our first meeting to be like. As you said, perhaps we should… slow down,” Jor-El said, and he offered a subtle smile. A gesture that was proving to be more and more universal than Clark had presumed. “How is Earth? Have you… been treated well? Has the yellow sun been effective in keeping you healthy?”

Clark couldn’t lie. “Well, for starters, no one calls me Kal-El. They call me Clark. I was adopted by the humans who found my ship. Their names are Jon and Martha Kent. They’re…” Clark trailed off, the familiar feeling of grief returning to him, thinking about his parents. Quieter, he confessed, “They’re the only parents I’ve ever really known.”

“I see,” Jor-El said. “And they raised you as their own?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad,” Jor-El said.

Clark looked at him. Jor-El continued to face him, seemingly unafraid, and Clark felt his own fear begin to ebb.

“You are older than I hoped you would be. I wanted to see that you had landed safely, the same age that you were preserved in while you were in the ship. An infant. And now, I see that you are fully grown. But I am still happy that you not only survived, but exceeded expectations and arrived at what seems like an adult age. What is your profession?”

“I’m a journalist.”

At that, Jor-El tilted his head slightly. “Is that a highly respected position on Earth?”

“Uh,” Clark said, suddenly flashbacking to his early days as a journalist, when he tried to ask an accused criminal a question for a headline he was working on, and he had to pretend to be hurt when they threw their hot coffee on him. “It really depends.”

“I find this interesting,” Jor-El said, seeming to be deep in thought.

Clark had a guess as to why. “Well, you said you were a scientist. But Lara—I mean, my mother, did she—”

“No,” Jor-El said, predicting Clark’s question as easily as Clark had predicted his. And yet, he smiled anyways. “Neither of us were writers.”

 

“Jesus, Smallville, did you get hit by a taxi last night? You look like a wreck. Jimmy, go grab a coffee.”

When Jimmy turned to run off, Clark put his hand up to stop him. He looked over Jimmy’s shoulder at the frowning Lois. “I’m alright, Lois. Thanks. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

He had spent the entire night speaking to Jor-El, catching up with him. Trying to tell him everything about himself, and learning a few things in return. The whole encounter was… a strange situation, but not uninteresting. Just thinking about it made Clark suddenly feel less tired.

Lois just placed a hand on her hip, looking at Clark skeptically.

They had decided to meet at the train station—there was a light rail that went straight into Gotham, the most convenient way for them to travel together. Lois took Clark’s word for it immediately, spinning on her heel and resuming her trek to the ticketbooth. Clark and Jimmy followed her lead.

When Jimmy didn’t enter the line, Lois asked, “Don’t you need a ticket?”

“I technically wasn’t assigned to this,” Jimmy said. Clark blinked at this news. “But I wanted the opportunity to meet Bruce Wayne, so I bought my ticket online.” Jimmy stopped and opened up his wallet. “I have it right… uh…” He started to pat his other pockets.

Lois deadpanned, looking at Jimmy with a hopeless expression. “Jimmy… if you weren’t assigned to go with us, then there’s no way that Perry is going to print your photo. You’d have to take a photo of Bruce Wayne in bed with the goddamned president or something for Perry to even _consider_ making room for a photo that he didn’t plan in his printing budget—”

“Oh, this isn’t for Daily Planet. See, for my journalism class—”

“ _Jimmy_!” Lois said, guffawing. Her face was turning red. “You are _not_ using my interview with Bruce Wayne for your _Junior project_!” Suddenly, Lois’ eyes darted in Clark’s direction, as if just remembering that he was there. She straightened her posture a little and corrected, “I mean, _our_ interview.”

“But—”Jimmy started.

“I’m not using the company card to buy you a train ticket to Gotham so you can get extra credit!” Lois cut off. “Perry will _kill_ me!”

“I’ll cover your ticket, Jimmy,” Clark said, to which Jimmy and Lois instantly turned to him.

“Really, Mr. Kent?” Jimmy said, eyes lighting up.

“It’s Clark—”Clark started.

“Seriously, Smallville?” Lois said. “Stop enabling him!”

“Oh come on, Lois,” Clark said, smiling gently. “We were both in college not too long ago.”

Lois’ foot stopped tapping. Clark just noticed that she was wearing heels. She sighed heavily. “Fine. I can’t tell you what to do with _your_ money anyways.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kent—”

“It’s Clark—”

“I really appreciate this, you know. Have you ever been to Gotham? Last time I went, it was for my high school field trip. I got so lost. Hey, can you believe we’re going to be face to face with Bruce Wayne?”

“Yeah. It’s, uh—”Clark’s eyes shifted to the side. “...pretty great.”

If Jimmy noticed Clark’s failed attempt at enthusiasm, he didn’t comment on it. He was distracted by a scene with a family in the distance. He snapped a photo—the strong flash making Clark flinch. It wasn’t just him—Lois turned away from the ticket booth long enough to shoot Jimmy a look.

“Jimmy—”she said with a sigh.

“Whoops, sorry,” Jimmy said, shrinking in place.

Lois turned to Clark. Clark just smiled sheepishly.

They got their tickets and boarded the train. Jimmy and Clark took their seats first and Lois stopped when she saw the open seat sandwiched between them. Her expression seemed a bit awkward and uncomfortable and she finally took an empty bench across from them instead. Voices in the background grabbed Clark’s attention.

"Superman is totally stronger than Wonder Woman!"

"Nuh-uh. Wonder Woman is way stronger. She's like, way, way, _way_ stronger!"

"Allison, keep your voice down," a woman, presumably the mother, said with a sharp look as she boarded the train with her children. Both daughter and son shrank under her gaze but soon started whispering to each other. Even under the loud noises of other trains passing under the tunnels and the voice on the speaker, Clark could catch every word. Superman versus Wonder Woman continued. He smiled a little to himself.

The train was filling up fast. Lois was glued to a tablet she had brought with her until someone took the seat next to her. Lois’ nose scrunched up—Clark could also smell the woman’s foul perfume but politely withheld his reaction. Lois turned her head, looking ready to slide down to the seat next to her, but someone else took that as well—a man with the body of a football player, who seemed to be taking up two seats instead of one. His leg and shoulder were already bumping up against Lois.

Lois immediately grabbed her things and took the seat between Clark and Jimmy instead, and whether they liked it or not, they all were squeezed together the entire trip there.

 

“Watch where you're going!” a man snapped, and Clark felt a rise in his chest, moving in to defend Lois—but Lois sneered in return.

“ _You_ cut _me_ off, so buzz off!” she said sharply, and the young man just shook his head and continued on his way. Expression dark, she grumbled, “Gotta love Gotham.”

Gotham was definitely a far way off from the Golden Metropolis, filled with proud people with tough attitudes. The buildings were a mix of hard steel and old limestone, in comparison to the modern architecture and glass skyscrapers that Clark had become accustomed to. The top of the train station even had old gargoyles, which Clark guessed could easily have been as old as the city itself.

In truth, Gotham also made Clark uncomfortable. The smog was so thick that Clark’s senses felt a little overwhelmed. And even in the daytime, the whole city was abuzz with sirens and people arguing, making him anxious. At least Jimmy seemed to be enjoying himself—he was snapping some shots of the buildings.

“What a dump,” Lois said, rueful.

“I think it has personality,” Jimmy said, smiling behind a lens.

“We're here for work,” Clark reminded them both gently. Lois hailed a taxi and they all squeezed in. Lois and Jimmy were tiny but...  well, Clark did have very big shoulders.

“Wayne Enterprises,” Lois told the driver, and the driver took off before anyone could even buckle in their seatbelts. Lois glanced over at Clark. “Aren't you going to buckle in?”

“Oh,” Clark said. He couldn't remember the last time he had been in a car—and he was never worried about his safety. He grabbed the belt—it felt so teeny in his hands. “Right. Slipped my mind.”

“How?” Jimmy whispered, sounding a little amused. As if to prove his point, the taxi swerved around the corner and nearly crashed into another car.

“A phone interview would have been so much easier,” Lois said, sighing.

“Why didn't you suggest it?” Jimmy asked.

“Bruce Wayne only does in-person interviews. God knows why.”

Clark had a guess: Bruce didn't want to talk to anyone he couldn't _see_.

“Cool,” Jimmy breathed, when the taxi finally pulled up to their destination—but his gaze wasn't fixated on the office building. His gaze was set on the building across the street. Wayne Tower. Clark had to agree—the tower was the highest point in Gotham. Even as someone who could fly, it was impressive how tall it was.

They waited in the main lobby. When the elevator doors opened, they were all expecting an assistant—not the man himself.

“Lois Lane,” Bruce said, moving to her first to shake her hand. “It's always good to see you.”

It was strange seeing the normally confident Lois look so taken aback. Professionally, she took his hand. Bruce then turned his gaze to Clark. Clark had mentally prepared himself for how he would react—thinking up words to say or even some type of face signal to reassure Bruce that this interview didn’t have to be awkward.

But when they locked gazes, Bruce’s smile was as equally charming as it was for Lois, and Clark was so startled and dumbfounded that he almost forgot to grab Bruce’s hand. The handshake was firm—a true businessman’s handshake.

“And that makes you Clark Kent. Did you all make it here okay?”

Clark pushed up his glasses, feeling suddenly nervous, like he was interviewing for a job at Wayne Enterprises rather than on behalf of the Daily Planet.

“Uh, yes, everything was just fine,” Clark said. And it was a good thing that Lois thought Clark was a bumbling farmboy anyways, otherwise his suddenly nervous speech might have seemed odd.

Bruce turned to Jimmy, who stood there with his jaw hanging slightly, and paused.

Bruce feigned awkwardness. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

“Jimmy Olsen—err, James Olsen—I mean—I’m a photographer,” Jimmy said, starstruck.

Bruce deserved some type of acting award. He turned to Lois for help and Clark, used to seeing a man whose eyes were normally hidden behind a owl and his mouth was always a thin line, was continuously shocked by this comparably colorful and expressive man.

“Photographer?” Bruce said, clearly cautious. Lois paled.

“He's…” she trailed off.

“An intern. He's just shadowing. None of these photos will be published,” Clark said.

“I see. Still, I sort of have a personal policy about pictures—”

“I don't have to stay the whole time. Ten minutes,” Jimmy said quickly.

“Alright. Ten minutes.”

Bruce opened the door for them. Jimmy silently shook his fist, cheering for himself.

Bruce’s office was as large as Clark’s living room—and the furniture was nicer than anything that Clark had ever seen, much less owned. There was no seat for Jimmy, so he wandered around the office, stopping before a black and gray photograph on the wall.

“I like your taste, Mr. Wayne. This reminds me of Ansel Adams,” Jimmy said cheerfully.

“That’s because it is,” Bruce said casually, taking a seat behind the desk.

Jimmy, his heart skipping, clenched his hands around his camera and accidentally set off the flash, taking a glorious picture of the ground.

“Jimmy,” Lois started, almost sighing.

“Right, sorry, I-I’ll take off the flash,” he said, and he quickly disappeared into the corner.

Later, he’d duck out of the room a little closer to nine minutes than ten minutes.

Lois and Clark conducted the interview normally—as they eased into the interview, Clark began to forget that he knew this man before them. In fact, with every answer Bruce gave them, Clark slowly stopped pondering over what were truths and what were lies. He regarded Bruce’s words as if he was learning about a different person—Bruce Wayne, instead of the secretive Batman that he worked with.

Bruce Wayne’s words had weight. Wayne Enterprises was seeing an exponential growth, propelling Bruce into the world’s richest category. This interview was just as important as the rest of Clark and Lois’ work—everyone in the world wanted to know what business ventures Bruce had planned, what new products he had in store, down to what damn cologne he wore.

But there was a point in the interview where Lois asked a question that made Bruce laugh, and it threw Clark for such a loop that he suddenly remembered who he was talking to. He couldn’t help but wonder why Bruce was so cordial now—but almost unbearable to work with as Batman.

“Any other questions?” Bruce asked as the vintage clock on the wall ticked.

Lois shifted in her chair, looking ready to pack up.

“What do you think about the Markovia situation?” Clark blurted out.

Lois stopped moving. Everything in the room seemed to freeze, save for the Newton’s cradle on the desk that kept ticking away. To Clark’s surprise, Bruce’s face broke out into a smile.

With practiced ease, Bruce feigned embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I'm not too well researched on politics.”

Clark was silenced. Bruce’s heart was a steady beat. Lois’, on the other, was racing. Her gaze lowered at the recorder and, seeming almost determined, she scooted to the edge of her chair.

“I believe Wayne Enterprises has donated money to the refugee situation,” she said.

“Ah, yes. My heart does go out to the refugees. We're also in the talks of a fundraiser, I believe.”

“Do you feel like you could do more?” Clark pressed.

At that, Clark sensed a dark flicker in Bruce’s eye. But just as quickly, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I'll do what I can to aid and support refugees. Outside of that, I'm not sure what more I can do.” In a lighter voice, Bruce said, “But, if the situation arises to do more, you know where to find me.”

The conversation finally seemed finished.

“Well thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne,” Lois said, packing up her bag.

“Not a problem,” Bruce said. Conversationally, he added, “Is there anything you're planning on doing in Gotham?”

Lois pondered for a moment before shrugging. “Oh, I'm not sure. I don't believe we have anything planned. Dinner in Wayne Tower, perhaps? The view of the city is great. It’s one of my favorite spots in Gotham.”

“If you go, I'll make sure you have a reservation. A late dinner would be the best choice. The view is much better at night.”

Lois glanced at Clark, the excitement sparkling in her eyes. Clark forced a smile, for appearances’ sake.

When they exited Bruce’s office and shuffled into the elevator, however, Lois’ cheer disappeared. She punched Clark on the shoulder. It didn't hurt—but Clark looked at her in surprise.

“‘What do you think about the Markovia situation’?” she said, slowing her words down and deepening her voice to her best Clark Kent impression. She muttered, “I nearly pissed myself. He never talks about world affairs.”

Clark smiled. “I thought you liked the hard hitting questions.”

Lois rubbed her forehead—but her face still broke out in a grin.

“You have more guts than I gave you credit for, Smallville, I'll give you that.” Her hands dropped to her side and she let out a breath, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Man. That guy has really changed. He used to be so smart. Quiet, but smart.”

Something about Lois’ words made her seem like she was familiar with Bruce. Clark couldn't help but remember Bruce’s generous offer of dinner as well.

“You know him?” Clark said, frowning.

“Know him? No, definitely not.” She tilted her head back and forth, thinking. “Well, I mean, we met once. As kids. Mostly I’ve just met his uncle a few times, is all. Colonel Kane worked with my father in the military. I met Mrs. Wayne once too—before she died, obviously. I was really young. We were all at a brunch together. He was really quiet, for a kid, I thought he was kind of weird. I mean, I was a reader as a kid too, but I feel like his nose was stuck in a book so he'd have an excuse not to talk to anyone.”

Strangely, that was how Clark imagined Bruce would be like as a kid. But for Lois, her tone made it clear that this was all very different from her expectations. For a person who only knew Bruce as a billionaire playboy, Clark supposed it must have been odd.

“How'd his mother die?” Clark asked. At that, Lois’ eyes widened.

“Criminy, Smallville. Do they not have the internet where you’re from? Or _TV_ , for that matter?” Lois said incredulously. “The Waynes were _murdered_.”

Clark was momentarily stunned by this news. His brow slowly furrowed, wondering if this was actually true. More, he wondered how he could have _worked_ with the guy and not known sooner. “How?”

“Shot dead in an alley. One after another. Bastard who did it was trying to steal money and jewelry.” Lois shook her head to herself. “Poor guy saw it all happen—his parents were shot right in front of him. Except he wasn’t really a guy, I guess. He was just a kid, at the time.” Lois glanced over at Clark, who was too stunned to speak. “Jesus, you really didn’t know, did you?”

“I mean, I knew he was an orphan. But I just assumed that…” Clark trailed off.

“Cancer? Car accident? Fire? That might have been merciful, at least in comparison. But no. Shot dead, right in front of a child.” Lois’ eyes were beginning to shine. She fanned herself lightly. “I need to stop thinking about it—it’s one of those stories that makes you tear up every time you think about it. I was just a little girl when it made the news and I remember seeing all of the memorials and people grieving. Mr. Wayne was a doctor and Mrs. Wayne saved abused women and children. So many people depended on them. But God, the most tragic part about it was just thinking of the boy who was _orphaned_.”

Clark reached his pocket and pulled out a tissue. Lois glanced at it once and, to his surprise, laughed.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lois said. “Do you always carry tissues on you? Well, aren't you a boy scout? That or someone's grandma…”

Clark smiled a little. “Actually, it’s a habit I picked up at Star News. You’re always supposed to carry tissues at an interview.”

“Even to visit Bruce Wayne? I think that’s one interview where you don’t have to worry about waterworks.”

“And yet—”

“Okay, okay, point made,” Lois said, cutting him off.

“Even knowing his past, you weren’t expecting a sad interview.”

“Why would I? He brings it up in public every so often, when he’s doing related charity work involving orphans or when he’s picking up his parents’ work. Besides that, he seems… okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean, if you ask Cat, she’ll give you all the details on what a supposed pervert he is,” Lois said, snorting a little. “But I mean, aside from being a bit indecent, as well as a bit clumsy on those vacations of his, he seemed to turn out just fine… all things considered. He seems to have recovered.”

At that, Clark went quiet. He pocketed the tissue.

Jimmy reunited with the group.

“Hey, I got some good photos that I have to show you all later—from the interview, of course,” Jimmy quickly elaborated. He looked at Lois. “Great job, Lois. It was cool seeing you at work. I’ve shadowed other reporters before but none that handled themselves like you did.”

“Thank you, Jimmy,” Lois said, beaming.

“No matter what people may say about you, there’s no denying that you’re a good reporter,” Jimmy said. Jimmy looked down to adjust his camera set, not noticing the double-take that Lois did. Clark tensed in place, hearing her heartbeat begin to pick up.

“What do you mean? What do _they_ say about me?” Lois asked, frowning. Jimmy glanced up at her. Shrugged once.

“Oh, you know. Like people in the office. Like Cat and Steve and stuff.”

Lois’ eyes narrowed. “People talk about me?”

“Well, yeah,” Jimmy said. He was beginning to notice Lois’ concern. Almost cautiously, he said, “I mean, it’s nothing _bad_.”

“Well, what do they say?” Lois said, blinking twice.

“That you’re headstrong.”

Lois just looked at him.

“Jimmy—”Clark started, and a look of realization crossed Jimmy’s face.

“Oh, no, Ms. Lane—I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jimmy sputtered out, eyes widening. “ _I_ don’t think that about you. It’s everyone else in the office that thinks that way.”

Jimmy suddenly went silent, realizing his mistake only after picking up on Lois’ lack of response. Clark sighed a little, adjusting his glasses. That… was a disaster.

But Lois just crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s fine, Jimmy. I get it.”

“But—”

Without skipping a beat, Lois looked back at her watch. “We got an hour before our ticket back to Metropolis. Let’s get drinks, maybe a light dinner, and then catch our seats. We'll skip the tower—I’m not much in the mood for steak and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a nice, simple deli right by the station.”

Quick as lightning, Lois started the journey—and Clark and Jimmy followed her.

“Jeez, Mr. Kent, you don’t think she’s mad, right?”

Clark looked at Jimmy dryly. “You… just told her that the entire office hated her.”

“I never used the word _hate_ ,” Jimmy said. His shoulders slumped. “I mean—I wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings or anything...”

Clark shook his head to himself. He knew Jimmy had no ill intentions, and if Clark was honest, some of the office’s criticisms of Lois were true. But some things felt too harsh to repeat. Clark interceded, “It doesn’t matter what they said or what you repeated, Jimmy. It’s still going to hurt. To be scrutinized by your colleagues—it makes you feel like an outcast. It makes you feel like you _don’t belong_.”

“Of course she belongs. We all work for the same paper,” Jimmy said, looking at him.

Clark wasn’t sure how to make him understand. When they all settled down in the deli, ordering their foods in turns, Clark made sure to say something to Lois when they were alone.

“It’s all just office politics,” Clark said as they were seated at a table. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I’m not,” Lois said quickly. She straightened her posture in her seat. “If I can’t handle criticism, then I have no right to call myself a journalist.”

“But it is bothering you,” Clark said. Lois gave a scoff, shaking her head to herself, looking ready to shrug Clark off like she always did. But her guarded gaze soon seemed lost in thought. After a moment, she spoke up.

“Being a journalist is all I’ve ever wanted. All that matters is that Perry likes my work, which I know he does. If it was otherwise, he’d never ask me to go on these assignments,” Lois said. She was all large hand gestures as she spoke. She huffed a little, her hand finally settling on the table. She tapped the surface with her nails for a moment, gaze lost in concern. “But it’s like the rest of the office needs me to prove myself to them. So are they right? Am I too bullheaded? Do I need to take it down a notch?”

“I don’t think you have to do that at all,” Clark said.

“So what _should_ I do?” Lois said, exasperated.

Clark shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lois repeated, deadpanning.

“You said it yourself—all that matters is that you do great work,” Clark said. “Some people are just never going to accept you, even at your best.”

Lois looked at him deeply for a moment, in a way that made Clark pause. Their eye contact broke when Jimmy grabbed his seat at the table after submitting his order to the cashier. He had his camera out.

“So, wanna see my photos of Bruce Wayne?” He started clicking through the photos without waiting for their answers.

Lois rested her head in her hand, humming a little. “You know, he was a lot taller than I imagined.”

At that, Clark eyed her suspiciously. “I thought he was a _sleaze_.”

“Oh shut _up_ ,” Lois said, her face reddening slightly. “That’s what not what I was getting at.”

Jimmy finally pulled up the photo he managed to capture. Clark and Lois leaned over Jimmy’s shoulders to take a peek at the camera.

“Huh,” Lois said before anyone else, her voice quiet. “He looks so serious.”

 


	2. Part 2

It was Clark’s first real day off in awhile. It started like any other morning. Clark was in his bedroom getting dressed when he heard his cell phone vibrating against the living room coffee table. He finished pulling on his shirt and went to pick up his phone in time.

“Hello?”

“Well hello, hello,” a pleasant voice spoke.

Clark instantly smiled. “Hi, Ma. How are you?”

“Well, I’m doing just fine. How’s my sprout doing up in Metropolis? You know, Pa and I _finally_ got our copy of the Daily Planet in the mail yesterday. This is the _fourth time_ it’s been late—”

“I’m afraid that’s more of a customer service issue, Ma. I write ‘em, they send ‘em,” Clark said lightly. He flipped on the TV and let it play in the background while he went to go grab his coffee, which had just finished brewing.

“It’s not them, it’s the postman. He’s always late or handing things off to the neighbors—oh, speaking of the neighbors, I just remembered what I was calling you about—”

Clark poured his coffee before returning to the living room. He hadn’t even taken a sip when something caught his eye.

“So I was in town meeting with the girls. We were at _Wanda’s_ —not my friend, Wanda, but the restaurant. It’s new, you haven’t seen it yet, but it’s real nice. Anyways—”

“Ma—”Clark started. His gaze was fixated on a live news report of a massive car chase.

“So it was me, Pauline and Josephina at _Wanda’s_ , and we were all sitting right at the window—”

“Ma, can I call you back—”Clark said, setting his mug on the nearest surface. He hurried toward the bedroom, accidentally knocking his glasses off in the process of trying to take off his shirt.

“Oh, trust me, Clark, you’re going to want to hear this. So Josie looks out the window and you’ll never _guess_ who she spotted right there in front of _Hank’s Hardware_ —”

“Ma, I’m sorry, I have to hang up now—”

“It was Lana Lang—”Clark caught her saying but he had already hung up.

He stared at his cell phone a second longer.

“Lana?” he repeated to himself—but in the background, he could still hear the report playing on the TV. He quickly changed into Superman and sped out the window.

 

A trip to Smallville was long overdue. Clark hadn’t been visiting nearly as much as he should. The trip to his hometown took less than half an hour if he flew—but finding the time between his work made it near impossible.

Lana just seemed like the perfect excuse to stop by. She had ran off from Smallville a few years back, shortly after Clark had gone off to college, and they hadn’t spoken since. Her reappearance in Smallville made it seem like the perfect timing.

There was also additional pressure—he had meant to meet with his parents in person. He wanted to sit them down and finally talk about the truth of his origins. Admittedly, he had been putting off the meeting, out of fear of how they might react. Ma and Pa had been honest and open with him about his origins—but they weren’t without their fears as well. Fears of Clark being taken away from them.

There was something about home that just felt healthy. No smog, gentler sounds, and a bright sky. He landed in the cornfield halfway between the two farms instead of directly in front of the house, out of fear of being spotted by Lana’s parents. Walking through those rows of stalks between the two houses brought back lots of memories—from games of hide and seek to sneaking around on school nights.

Clark walked up the steps onto the porch of the Langs’ house. They still had that creaky floorboard, it seemed. Clark was about to knock on the door but it suddenly swung open.

Lana stopped dead in her tracks when their eyes met.

Several years of wondering what he would say when they crossed paths again—and Clark went silent.

The screendoor’s groan, then followed by the creak in the floorboard.

Lana looked at him for a moment before hopping up. Clark easily caught her, letting her squeeze her arms around her neck, her dirty sneakers coming off the ground. For good measure he straightened his back, lifting her even higher off the ground.

“Have I gotten heavier?” Lana muttered, their cheeks smushed together.

“Light as a feather.”

“I only asked because I knew you’d say that.”

“I missed you.”

Lana squeezed a little tighter.

They sat on the porch swing, Lana rocking it back and forth like always. And it was a little surreal being side by side with her again, on that very porch, as if they were just waiting for the schoolbus to come flying down the dusty road to take them to Smallville High.

“Where’d you go?” Clark asked.

“Everywhere,” Lana said. “I was doing volunteer work. It took me around the world.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going?”

“I was afraid everyone would try to talk me out of it,” Lana said. Her cap sat in her lap as she adjusted her ponytail. It was a warm day and Lana was dressed for a day of work on the field. “Especially Ma and Pa. When I told them I had been to Africa, the first thing they asked me was if I got kidnapped. The second thing they asked was if I picked up a disease.” She shook her head a little to herself. “They need to get out more too.”

“So you went to Africa?”

“And South America and Asia.”

“Why?” Clark had to ask. The porch swing slowly swayed to a stop.

“You were going to Metropolis. Pete joined the army.”

“I thought you were going to go to school.”

“Yeah. In Kansas. Then I was going to graduate and find a job as close to Smallville as I could.”

It seemed like a good idea to Clark but he could see in Lana’s faded eyes that this wasn’t the case.

“After I found out what you and Pete were doing, I felt really trapped. I felt like I had to get out of Kansas as fast as I could.” Lana played with the brim of her hat idly, staring into her lap. “It was great. I saw a lot of places I never thought I’d see. Made some good friends. Helped a lot of people.” Lana suddenly turned towards him. “I think I wanted to prove to everyone that I wasn’t just some farm girl from Smallville. The same way you proved it.”

At that, Clark was puzzled. He found himself frowning. “Lana, you’ve never cared about things like that.”

“A lot of the places I volunteered at had no running water,” Lana said, brow furrowing. “They barely had food, much less televisions. And there are a lot of things that I know will stay with me forever, for better or for worse, but one of the things that I remember most was seeing you.”

“Me?” Clark said, confused.

Lana nodded. “You hear things when you travel around, even without checking the news. I heard stories about this man who saved people. Who could fly and lift falling buildings. Who wore an ‘S’ on his chest. I knew it was you. And once, I spent a few weeks in this village where no one could speak English and could barely read. No electricity for phone, internet or television. But on one of the buildings was that _symbol_. I spent all this time away from home because I wanted to prove myself and _you_ —you were just doing things beyond what anyone could imagine.”

Clark wasn’t sure how to take in this news. “Lana, you helped those people too. Probably in many ways that I couldn’t.”

“I’m sure I did,” Lana said, nodding. “But it’s different. They _knew_ you, Clark. They knew who you were. These people had nothing but you... you gave them _hope_.”

“So did you.” Clark turned on the porch swing so he could face her a little better—but she was still playing with her hat. “Lana, I think it’s amazing that you did all these things. People look up to me but I’m still just one person. I can’t fix every problem in the world—I try but…”

Clark couldn’t find a way to explain it. Couldn’t think of a way to describe the constant noises that filled his ears—newsfeeds and sirens and people crying.

“The world needs as much help as it can get. Help from _everyone_ , including people like you.”

“I know,” Lana said, looking at him. Clark felt his heart twist when he saw her glassy eyes. “I guess when I say it like that, it makes me sound insecure. But I didn’t feel that way. When I saw you, it just made me realize how much I missed being home. I thought if I left, I'd find myself. But the further I moved away from here, the more I realized… this is exactly where I wanted to be.” She shrugged a little, a tenderness in her eyes. “After all these years, I ended up back where I started. I'm a Smallville girl.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Honestly? I feel kind of like a failure for coming back. Like I couldn't tough it out or something. I know that’s not true—and I still want to do _more_ —but it still hurts. But I suppose the one good thing is that I’m not _afraid_ of coming home anymore.” She managed a smile. “So no. I don’t think it’s entirely a bad thing.”

“You were gone for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I think everyone is really happy that you’re back.”

“Clark, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I understand your reasoning.”

“No, not just that,” she said, voice firm. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted when you told me the truth about who you were.”

“When we were kids?” Clark said incredulously. He still remembered that day, though it felt so long ago. When he told her—when he _showed_ her that he wasn’t human—at first, she responded with shock. Following her initial surprise came this sudden, strange calmness as he showed her everything from heat vision to frost breath. Even when he showed her that he could fly, and he expected her to light up in excitement, she said nothing. She just stared at him, eyes almost saddened. And then she kissed him, in a way that felt more like a farewell than an act of passion.

“We grew up together as kids. You were my best friend. I was... so sure we were going to spend our entire lives together,” Lana said, her voice falling soft, and Clark lowered his head at the implication there. He had known. He had always known. He knew it every time her heart would start racing for no reason, or when she insisted on being his homecoming date, or the tiny comments he overheard from Ma and the people around town. “At that moment, I realized I was going to have to let you go and that hurt.”

Clark went quiet, not sure how to respond to this. Not sure how to explain how much he cared about her but had known for years that his life was going to take him out of Smallville. Not sure how to express to her that all the things she feared about Smallville were exactly the things that Clark wanted to preserve—those careless days of falling asleep in cornfields and going to county fairs and pushing a wagon to the top of a hill. That Smallville was just a tiny dot on a map, in the middle of nowhere, on a small world in a seemingly limitless universe, and there was nothing shameful in that. That his life had felt easier, more at peace, in his simple Smallville days—but the essence of who he was, the abilities he had to protect this planet that he cared so much about, prevented him from returning to that place of solace.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said honestly.

“Why do you always apologize?” she said, suddenly grinning. Clark couldn't find it in him to smile back. “Clark, don’t be sorry. The things you do for people… even the ones who don't deserve it… helping the world become a better place… it's so much bigger than us. So much bigger than all of us. You've gone places only a handful, if _any_ , people have gone. And you've only just started.” Lana shook her head to herself. “I have a lot of regrets over how upset I was with you. How selfish I was. You didn't deserve it. If I had known back then what I knew now, I would have never treated you coldly for leaving.”

“Lana, stop,” Clark said gently. “That was years ago. I'm not upset about any of that. The only thing that worries me is that you felt like you had to do this all on your own. Everyone was wondering where you had gone. Everyone missed you.”

“Clark,” Lana said with a heavy sigh. But then she paused, noticing Clark’s expression as it fell. “Clark, what is it?”

“I hear something,” Clark said, listening to a voice coming from the Kents’ farm.

A voice that belonged to neither of his parents.

He got up from the porch swing, walking back towards those cornfields.

“Clark?” he heard Lana call out—but he drowned it out with all the rest of the noise.

He walked, steadfast, heart hammering, onto the Kent property. His x-ray vision picked up three bodies inside of the Kent house. Lana still trailing behind him, Clark opened up the front door of his house without so much as a knock.

“Clark!” Ma said, startled. She happened to be passing by the door when Clark swung it open. She walked up to him, patting his face. “There you are, about time you showed up. You just won’t believe our guest. His car broke down right in front of the farm. Your Pa is out there taking a look at it now.”

Clark actually could believe who their guest was, which was the sad thing.

“Holy shit, it’s Bruce Wayne the billionaire,” Lana cursed. But then, eyes flickering in Ma’s direction, she corrected herself, “Crap.”

Bruce came into view, dressed impeccably. Clark nearly rolled his eyes—the brand designer clothing was hardly needed to impress a few farm folks. But he supposed it made sense for the charade he was playing—that he _just happened_ to be passing through Smallville.

“I was telling Mrs. Kent that we met before—when you interviewed me in Gotham,” Bruce said, shoving his hands in his pockets. The casual smile on his face unnerved Clark more than anything. It was amazing how easily Bruce could take the charming socialite personality and turn it on and off.

“What are the odds that you'd run into my folks down in Smallville, of all places?” Clark said, forcing a smile in return. Bruce didn't so much as bristle.

“Oh, Clark, you have to introduce him to Lana,” Ma said, waving a hand.

“Right,” Clark said stiffly. “Bruce, this is Lana Lang. She's a childhood friend of mine. We grew up next door to each other.”

“Nice to meet you, Lana.” Bruce gave his trademark smile as they shook hands. “Beautiful name.”

At that, Lana seemed amused. “It's nothing that special, Mr. Wayne, but thank you for saying so.”

“You don't think so?”

Almost cautiously, she said, “I'm sure the women in Gotham have much more exotic names.”

“I've met a lot of women in Gotham—but no Lana Lang.”

Lana, who had been beating off sweet-talking Smallville boys since elementary school recesses, just eyed Bruce. With all the courtesy of a Midwestern girl, she lowered the brim of her hat over her eyes, and said rather bluntly, “You don't seem so bad yourself, Mr. Wayne, though I prefer men with some dirt underneath their nails.”

“So Pa’s taking a look at your car?” Clark quickly cut in, and he could catch Lana crossing her arms in his peripherals.

“He should be finishing it up now,” Ma said.

“Maybe I can give you a tour of the farm,” Clark said, giving Bruce a pointed look.

“Oh Clark, there's nothing to see—”Ma started to refute.

“It should only take a moment.”

Adjusting the buttons on his coat, Bruce stepped up to the challenge. “Very well, if it'll only take a moment.”

As he stepped onto the porch, Lana glanced at Clark.

“I should get going,” she said. “I need to help my folks.”

Clark frowned a little, wishing their conversation could have concluded a little better. “Alright then.”

“I'll be next door if you need me. Fly on by anytime,” she said with a sudden smile. And hearing that, Clark felt a little better.

“Nice meeting you, Lana Lang,” Bruce said, speaking up. Lana gave him a tight-lipped smile and went on her way.

Unable to even wait until they made it to the barn, Clark stopped and turned on him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, perhaps more forcefully than he intended to, judging by the watchful look in Bruce’s eye. But it was hard for him to rein his emotions in check.

“Well, you made such a nice visit in Gotham, I thought I could return the favor.”

“I was there for my _job_.”

“I'm on business as well,” Bruce said, adjusting his tie. Clark fumed, nearly spitting out _liar_ , but he controlled himself.

“My point is that I was sent there to do an interview. I may have crossed some lines in my questions but I was doing my job as a journalist. I never sunk so low as to dig into your personal life—not to mention pretending to be interested in your friends.”

“I haven't met a Lana Lang in Gotham, that much is true. Socialites aren't always interested in European supermodels—sometimes redheads in flannel and denim have their allure too,” Bruce said simply. Gaze darkening ever so slightly, he added, “Also, you did dig into my personal life.”

It didn't take long for Clark to put two and two together. “You have your elevators wired, don't you?”

“I'm an important man with a lot of enemies,” Bruce said, not even looking Clark in the eyes. His gaze wandered around the farm, eyes squinting against the sun.

“Lois started that conversation, not me. I wasn't… I wasn't trying to dig into your past.”

“My past is common knowledge. Yours, however, is quite vague. Your conversation with Lois reminded me of that point—so I took it upon myself to do some interviewing of my own. So long as you have nothing to hide, visiting your parents shouldn't be an issue.”

“It is _definitely_ an issue,” Clark said, unable to strain the indignance from his voice.

“Just doing my work as a detective.”

“Well, did you find whatever it was you were looking for?” Clark said, words rushed and heated. “Was it worth the drive out here and breaking your car?”

“Did I find what I was looking for? No, not yet. But as to whether or not it was worth it, I did find out that your mother makes good cobbler.”

“‘Not yet’?” Clark said, fists clenching. “What is it going to take to get you off my back?”

Bruce’s facade began to crumble, his low voice sounding far more characteristic as he said, “Until I find what I need to prove you're not a threat.”

“And all of this is because I suggested we intervene in Markovia? Is that it?” Clark shot back.

“No. It's not _just_ about Markovia—it’s the fact that you have completely unchecked power—”

“So it's about the thing in Gotham then, hm? Are you going after Diana too?”

“You're not even listening.”

“What have I done to you?” Clark said impatiently. “Why can't you just trust me?”

“ _Trust_ you?” Bruce shot back, with sudden ferocity. Clark was momentarily silenced, his jaw clenching. “I don't trust anyone that's _bulletproof_.”

After his short outburst, Bruce’s body relaxed. He adjusted his jacket, as if slipping back into his suit of composure and class. With perfect timing, Pa spotted them and waved them over.

He told them about the broken belt in Bruce’s car.

Conveniently, Bruce had a spare in his trunk.

 

“But why do the Markovians seek to control their people? How do they benefit from it?”

“Money, partly. Power, mostly. Markovia is an incredibly poor country. The only way they can profit and stay afloat is to place their people into labor camps. However, to maintain that control, they have to change the ideals and mindsets of the public. Many Markovians are brainwashed through propaganda to trust their government. They are unaware of how badly they’re actually being treated, with no idea of what the outside world is truly like to compare themselves to. However, with recent events, Markovians are slowly becoming more and more aware of the corruption in their government. They’re seeking to rebel—which is causing the government to backlash. They want to punish their people to keep them in place.”

“Money is still a strange concept to me.”

“It’s like… trading, almost. You need it for food and clothes—”

“Perhaps I misspoke. Even Krypton had currency. Rather, what I don’t understand is the extent of its importance. On Krypton, money is simply a luxury. Things like food, clothing, shelter, medical care—those are basic rights. Every Kryptonian is entitled to them, so long as the need and desire is there.”

Clark frowned. “Unfortunately, many countries on Earth haven’t reached that understanding.”

“But why not?”

“Some people are incapable of working—or unwilling. Many Earthlings fear that in order to provide sustenances, they will have to work harder on behalf of other people.” Clark paused, noticing the concern in Jor-El’s face. He sighed. “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense. But that’s just how some humans think.”

“I suppose that on Krypton, such resources are easy to come across. There is less need for _competition_. There is no fear of working _too_ hard. Additionally, there is no concept of divided nations. We come from different regions and cities, and in those are cultural differences, yes, but in the end, we are all Kryptonian. War is an old concept,” Jor-El said. His biological father spoke evenly, his blue and white face expressionless. Yet, Clark _felt_ the Kryptonian’s concern. And judgment.

Clark couldn't argue with him. He felt a semblance of shame every time he talked about the seemingly endless problems that plagued his adopted planet. Like he had failed to rectify it.

“Krypton sounds wonderful,” Clark said, forcing a smile. “I wish I could have seen it.”

At that, there was a shift in Jor-El’s expression. The guardedness slipping away.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I wish you could have seen it too.”

The projection lifted off the ground, levitating towards another part of the room. Clark watched him questioningly for a moment before following suit.

Now that the fortress was opened, Clark was able to travel to different rooms. He had been spending lots of time with the Kryptonian items that the Eradicator had salvaged, with Jor-El teaching him the language and culture of his home planet. So much about Krypton still felt so strange to him.

And yet, when Jor-El spoke about the planet, and Clark saw images of its wonders, and lived in the stories of a peace-filled world, and Clark was filled with this strong sense of longing.

After long days of reporting on the horrors of tyrannical governments and fighting day-to-day crime and struggling to fix disasters, this fortress was the one place that Clark could come to escape. To remember that a world of love and good health was still possible.

If Krypton could do it, why not Earth? In the end, were Kryptonians and humans all that different?

Clark pondered over these thoughts almost every day now.

“Where are we going?” Clark asked when Jor-El led him to an unfamiliar level of the fortress.

“The Eradicator managed to preserve a rather curious object. One that I, myself, invented.”

Clark found himself in a room. In the center of the room was Jor-El’s invention, which appeared to be nothing but a hoop connected to a base. Clark inched forward, touching its edges, feeling the foreign material that was hard and polished like steel and yet somewhat earthy to the touch like stone.

“What is it?” Clark asked, brow furrowing.

“Right now, nothing but a structure. But it used to host another world by another name.” Jor-El spoke its title in Kryptonian. Clark’s brain struggled to grasp the meaning.

“What would that mean in English?”

“I suppose it'd be something like… the Phantom Zone?” Jor-El guessed, eyes turning toward the object. “Krypton wasn't perfect. It was also filled with criminals and radicals. I invented the Phantom Zone as a solution to keeping these dangerous people away from society—without having to resort to violence. I placed them in the Phantom Zone where they could _observe_ but not _destroy_.”

“It looks like it doesn't work. So why did you want to show me this?”

“As proof,” Jor-El said. When Clark turned to him, the projection’s gaze seemed to lower. “I know at times that I seem highly critical of Earth—but it's only because I'm concerned over your safety. This planet is your home now. Krypton is… long gone. But I don't think your mission to preserve peace is a futile one. Even Krypton needed work and improvement—but over many eras, it was able to achieve something close.”

Jor-El looked at Clark, smiling, and Clark stared back in amazement. Clark knew the image of his father was just a ghost, powered by alien crystals, but sometimes he seemed so _real_.

“I don't want you to give up hope, Kal-El,” he said. He paused, realizing his mistake. “I'm sorry, I meant— _Clark_.”

“No,” Clark said. “Kal is fine.”

 

He waited until it was night time to cross the Markovian border. At his speed, he might have been able to fly in without any detection even during the daytime, but deciding that it was better to be safe, he waited the long hours until sunfall.

He hadn’t forgotten about the conversation in the Hall of Justice. Batman’s words seemed to echo in the back of his mind. _That type of power does not mean that you’re_ limitless _. Just because you_ can _, doesn’t mean you_ should _._

Clark never thought it would come to this. Every story of the Markovians that he had covered struck him deeply. Even knowing that these actions were irresponsible, he felt forced to intercede. The details were fuzzy—but an undercover reporter recently broke news about an entire Markovian school that was imprisoned for refusing to pledge to its leader. The entire school—from its instructors to its students—were imprisoned, sentenced to fifteen years of labor. A death sentence for most, particularly these children who only ranged from the ages of ten and sixteen.

He couldn’t get too involved. But he also couldn’t let sixty people be worked to their early deaths, especially many of which were just children.

He had to do a lot of research to pinpoint where the prison might have been held. He uncovered stories of a prison near a mining site. Clark felt nervous as he traversed the forbidden territory—a view that few had ever seen, much less escaped to tell about. As he traversed through the forest, he found that there was something about the unspoiled land that was both sad and beautiful.

He spotted the building from far away—but the only sound that filled the silence were the sounds of crickets and nightbirds. He could hear faint heartbeats of only a handful of people and nothing more.

At this, he felt his stomach drop.

Could he have been too late?

He stayed behind a line of trees, levitating because he couldn’t dare to leave so much as a footprint for Markovian authorities. Electricity in Markovia was scarce—from space images at night, the country was nothing more than a dark spot surrounded by brightly lit countries—and Clark could barely make out the different shapes in the pitch darkness.

Seeing that there was no one else moving in the yard, he silently flew over to the man on the ground. He quickly realized it was a prison guard, judging by the uniform. Forcibly knocked out, judging by the bruising, but still alive. Catching a faint smell of gunpowder, Clark glanced over, catching a gun. The weapon was disassembled into pieces, the dirt freckled with bullet shells. Recently fired but then taken apart.

A suspicion rose in Clark’s chest. Maybe the school wasn’t executed, like he feared. Maybe they had revolted.

Eyes and ears open, he searched the rest of the prison. The bunks were empty and stripped—the prisoners had taken some of their belongings with them. But as for the guards—while some of them were beaten bloody, they were all still alive.

None of this made sense. He couldn’t imagine these prisoners, most of whom were children who had been starved and forced to work themselves to their deaths, being able to take out trained adults without the use of guns, seemed preposterous. On top of that, he found no bodies of prisoners, meaning they escaped cleanly.

Clark had more questions than answers. What he did know was that the children were no longer here. As to _where_ they were, he only had a few guesses.

As he lifted himself in the air, he caught sight of something gleaming in the moonlight, in the midst of a clearing. He moved towards it—underneath the overgrowth, he found train tracks. He felt the heat coming off of them. He lifted his head, following its trail into the darkness.

Towards the border.

He sped along the tracks. In the pitch black, he finally caught the sight of the tail. He flew alongside it, entering one of the carts.

Upon landing, he heard several small gasps. He looked—huddled children lifting their blankets and catching sight of him. Clark, with a heavy heart, took in their gaunt faces, eyes widening in horror at his sudden appearance. He offered a gentle smile but it did little to ease them.

“What are you doing here?” a gruff voice said. Clark turned his head, spotting the shape sitting in the corner.

Clark’s brow slowly furrowed, disbelief filling him.

“Batman?” he said. Cautious eyes followed him as he approached his teammate—then a woman cut out in front of him.

“Don’t come near!” she said, thin arms out. She looked so frail that Clark felt even a wrong breath could knock her over. Even so, she put herself between him and Bruce, and Clark paused.

Bruce said something in Markovian. The woman never took her eyes off Clark, even as she trembled. But when Bruce was finished speaking, her heartrate began to even out. She sat back down.

Clark crouched down, eye level to Bruce. He noticed a bandage around his arm and without asking, used his x-ray vision.

“The shrapnel in your arm didn’t hit anything major—but it’s preventing the wound from closing.”

“When this train stops, we’ll be walking on foot toward the border,” Bruce said. “I can’t afford to leave a blood trail.”

“I thought you weren’t going to get involved in Markovia.”

“That was before they started torturing kids,” Bruce said. But he didn’t speak with his usual sharpness. His voice just sounded weary. He said, voice low, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Clark nodded.

Bruce turned his head towards the huddled groups of kids.

“Apparently, all the adults were executed upon arriving to the camp. Many more children starved or died from labor related injuries. There are about forty-six left.”

“Forty-six?” Clark repeated, stomach dropped. He tried to count the days since the news broke. “But it’s been about a week.”

“They were hardly in good condition even before they were captured.”

“Right. I know, I just...” Clark said, remembering the reports of a famine in the more rural parts of the country. He shook his head a little, remembering that he was here on a mission. “What can I do to help?”

“This train is only used to haul mining materials. the next stop is where they prepare shipments for export. The camps have poor communication connections—so hopefully the next camp won’t know we’re coming. But trains are noisy. We have to be prepared to take out any guard that tries to stop us from escaping.”

“What if we hopped off the train before we make it to the camp?”

“Look at these kids. The landmine field that surrounds the border is five miles. You really think these kids can walk the distance from here to the camp, plus the five miles?” Bruce said, speaking matter-of-factly. “Unless you can carry forty-six kids in one trip, we need to take this train as far as it can take us. I considered using the batwing but it’s equipped for one person—and I’m afraid the camouflaging technology will wear off, making it a prime target for the missiles Markovia constantly has pointed at the sky.”

If Clark had octopus arms, he probably could carry all those kids at once. But he didn’t. And leaving the group behind as sitting ducks while carrying two, _maybe_ three, kids at a time was just too dangerous.

“I can take out the guards,” Clark offered.

“You don’t know how to fight,’ Bruce said bluntly. Clark, feeling almost indignant, opened his mouth but Bruce talked over him, “With just one bullet or scream, it could wake up the whole camp, and then there will be open fire with forty-six kids in the center of it. You would have to take out every guard without being heard, which means no heat vision, no frost breath. Additionally, there are low grade cameras in the camp. You’ll also have to take them out without being seen. Could you do that?”

“I’m sure I could,” Clark said.

Bruce looked at him flatly.

“Fine, you do it,” Clark conceded.

“Your x-ray vision can spot landmines, meaning you can take these kids through the minefield. I’ve already spoken to some refugee aid organizations—they’ll be there, waiting for you. The group will follow you and I’ll make sure no one stops you from getting there.”

“And how are you getting back?”

“I have the tools necessary to spot the landmines. Worst case, I’ll use the batwing and chance the missiles.” Bruce turned his head to the woman near him. “This is Sofia. She can speak some English. She can translate for you. She’s also the oldest—a lot of the kids will listen to her.”

Clark looked at her, taking in the dark circles around her eyes and thin face. She was so weary looking he had mistaken her for being much older than she actually was. All the kids hardly seemed to be kids, for that matter—their faces stained with grime and sweat, odors lingering on their clothes, scratches on their legs and arms.

When they got closer to the stop, Bruce finally got up. He looked at Clark almost hesitantly.

“What?” Clark said, not liking the look.

“I know that J’onn, Diana and Arthur have killed monsters in the past. Personally, I have  a moral code, but given the circumstances and the need for self defense…” Bruce suddenly stopped, the implication hanging in the air. Clark arched an eyebrow.

“Um. I have a moral code too.”

“I won’t allow it to come down to that,” Bruce said anyways, tone solemn.

“Batman, I’m not… I’m not going to _kill_ anyone.”

“I know. I simply said, in the event of extreme circumstance, I would be understanding.”

“I…” Clark said, about to argue, but he stopped himself. He slowly exhaled, deciding it’d be simpler to just let it go. “I, yeah, okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The train slowed.

“Do you see anything?” Bruce said, voice low. Clark squinted his eyes, vision strained.

“Not well. This country still uses a lot of iron in their buildings and products. I think I psot someone in the yard. He’s carrying a rifle. Just past the shed there.”

“Anything beyond that?”

“There are other bodies but they’re all indoors.”

“Give me twenty seconds. Then take them out of here,” Bruce said. He immediately slipped down to the grass, stalking through the darkness.

Clark watched him grab onto the guard, lcoking him into a hold and trying to force a knockout. Clark and Sofia gathered the children and they walked alongisde the fence, hurrying as reasonably as they could. Sofia took the lead while Clark guarded the flank, watching to make sure no kids fell behind or a guards snuck up on them.

They made it past the camp and didn’t stop, heading straight for the border. Clark could see a large clearing in the distance, where the grass ceased to grow. The border.

Sofia slowed to a stop. “Where is that man?”

Clark looked back. Far off int he distance, he could see Bruce heading towards them. He seemed to be in good condition—but they couldn’t afford to wait for him.

“He’ll catch up,” Clark said. “We have to keep going.”

One of the children was pulling on Sofia’s sleeve, his eyes big and voice thick with emotion. Even with the language barrier, Clark could sense the fear and anxiety behind this boy’s words.

‘What’s wrong?” Clark asked. Sofia shook her head, expression grave.

“Some of them are afraid. They want to go back. They are afraid of the landmines or being caught by the soldiers.”

“I won’t let anything happen to any of you. Please, we have to continue.”

“I know,” Sofia said, nodding, and she spoke calmly to the boy.

Clark led the way, walking carefully, eyes glued to the ground. The children followed his steps exactly as they maneuvered around the minefield. To their right, Clark saw it. He stopped, hearing the children’s footsteps in the wet earth slow behind him. He pointed.

“Don’t walk over there. There’s a mine.”

Sofia relayed the insutrctions and they continued around it.

The further they progressed, the more the number of mines increased, going from a few sporadic placements spread out to zig-zagged rows. Clark was careful to watch the others making sure they crossed carefully. Clark glanced back, where he could see Batman in the distance, beginning to catch up to them.

As the steps became more complicated, the stress on the children intensified. Their breathing, haggard from both exhaustion and anxiety.

“What are they saying?” Clark asked when he heard a group of the children speaking.

“They’re tired. They want to stop.”

Clark glanced around. Mines surrounded them. There was no room for any of them to sit and take a break.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

“We must escape,” Sofia said, understanding, and she spoke as much to the children.

Not even a few moments later, there was a sudden thud, followed by a group of screams.

Clark spun around, saw that a girl had simply tripped, but the terror it caused to rush through the crowd was real, even resulting in some tears. It raised the tension in the air, small hearts beating like drums. Amidst it all, the boy that Sofia had calmed in the beginning began to pace in place, shouting.

Sofia was too busy trying to talk him down for Clark to ask her to translate. He could see the growing horror in the crowd’s eyes and knew something was wrong.

The boy suddenly took off running.

Clark parted through the crowd, flying after him. The boy made it a few yards before being scooped off the ground, nearly tripping over a detonator. But something—whether it was the force in which Clark grabbed him, or the fit of his prison uniform—caused the boy’s shoe to slip off.

Clark, who was checking the boy, didn’t notice it until it was already falling.

Clark reacted instinctively, turning his back to the mine, hugging the boy close to his body under the shelter of his cape.

The sound went off, blasting through his ears. Despite bracing himself for the impact, the strength of the mine shook through his body.

There was dust and dirt everywhere. Clark opened his eyes, feeling the heat of the air, but unable to make out anything. When the clouds cleared, Clark glanced first at the boy in his arms. The boy wasn’t moving, his eyes closed—but he was breathing. He seemed to have fainted.

Clark lifted his head. After the ringing in his ears subsided, he noticed the silence. The group had stayed in place, clearing the dust from their faces, where they saw Clark and the boy still intact. They were huddled around Sofia, every single one of them staring at Clark, wide-eyed and speechless. Clark turned his head, eyes landing on Bruce, who stood a few yards off.

Bruce’s expression seemed just as lost as the rest of theirs, his heart racing just as fast.

Quietly, Clark levitated across the field to rejoin the group.

At the end, they reached the last fence. They smuggled the children through an opening that they made with Clark’s heat vision. Help was already waiting on the other side, the volunteers rising to their feet upon seeing them.

Dawn was coming through. Clark didn’t realize how much time had passed until he glanced up at the lightened sky. The kids were packed up in vans and trucks. Clark and Bruce watched them go.

Clark turned back toward the fence, eyes faded.

“Their parents, their families, are still there.”

”Assuming they’re alive,” Bruce said. After a moment, he added, “We’ll discuss this with the League.”

It was the answer that Clark thought he wanted. At yet, he frowned.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Clark said, looking at Bruce. Bruce paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. Clark went on, “What the Justice League does… it’s a good thing. Maybe we can’t save everyone but…”

“So you’re okay with this?”

“No, of course not,” Clark said at once, chest twisting at the insinuation. “I just don’t want to divide the team. I never planned for anyone to see me here. I wanted to do this alone.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, probably because he didn’t need convincing.

After all, he likely wasn’t expecting help that night either.

Something still unnerved Clark. He thought about the landmine. Bruce might have kept himself composed—but Clark had heard his fear.

“Batman, you know I didn’t come here just because I _could_. It’s not like what you said to me in the Hall of Justice. I just came here because I wanted to help. I don’t… I really don’t want to control anyone—”

“You saved that kid,” Bruce said, cutting him off. Clark blinked. Bruce turned toward him and, more firmly, he said, “You saved a lot of people.”

 

“With Flash’s speed, we should have Metropolis cleaned in no time,” Clark overheard J’onn saying from the ground below.

“Have you spoken to the police?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, I have. They’re in the process of collecting security footage from the surrounding buildings and traffic stops. However, they have no indication as to who the bomber is. I’ve also spoken with the hospital and it appears that while there are quite a few injuries, there have been no fatalities.”

Clark finished picking up a fallen streetlight that had landed in the middle of the road. He landed beside J’onn and Bruce.

“Will the emergency room be able to fit all patients?” Clark asked. “A lot of people are still hospitalized from the metahuman incident on Tuesday.”

“Some of them will have to be transferred to the St. Francis hospital but yes, there is room for everyone. Hal and I already cleared the streets heading in that direction so the ambulances should be able to make it in time,” J’onn responded. “For now all we can do is focus our attention on cleaning up the debris in the streets. In the meantime, we will just have to trust this city and its crews to do their work.”

“If everything is handled here, I should return to Atlantis,” Arthur said.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in Atlantis,” Bruce said. There was an implication there.

“Being a king is a full time job,” Arthur said shortly.

“We should be able to handle this just fine, Arthur,” Clark said. “Go where you need to go.”

Bruce had a disapproving look on his face—but he did not argue. With Superman’s confirmation, Arthur took off.

“He needs to be with the team,” Bruce said when Aquaman was out of earshot.

Clark raised his hand, indicating toward the broken building down the block. It was already halfway standing again—with red and yellow zipping around it.

“Flash could probably handle the rest of this on his own. Arthur has an entire kingdom to take care of.”

“It’s not just this. He’s been absent and late for meetings. I have other obligations as well but I don’t let it distract me from Justice League business.”

Clark smirked a little. “Are you calling Gotham your kingdom?”

Bruce’s gaze darkened. Clark knew he was asking to be punched—but he also knew he could take it, which gave him some freedom to say what he pleased.

“I must admit that I find it concerning as well,” J’onn said. “However, I have sensed a great deal of stress from Aquaman. It’s no news that ties between Atlantis and the rest of Earth has been strained. Atlantis does not like its new king. They have been, almost since the beginning of its existence, an isolated kingdom. Arthur’s strong involvement in Earth’s affairs does not bode well with them. Additionally, many people on Earth don’t trust Aquaman after the Atlantean attacks in the Caribbean. It’s a hard balance to maintain—he, alone, must represent all of Atlantis, while simultaneously representing humans as well.”

Above Batman’s head, Clark saw Green Lantern flying toward them. His ring—forming a giant green net—carried large pieces of debris.

“Hey Batman, you might want to check the news,” Hal said, passing by.

Bruce frowned at the comment, clicking a button on the side of cowl. It was faint—but Clark could hear it.

“You can get radio signals in that thing too?” Clark said. It seemed like Bruce’s suit could do everything. As he listened in, picking up a few words, Clark frowned. “You can get _police_ radio signals? That’s illegal—”

“Quiet,” Bruce interrupted. A moment later, he said, “I have to return to Gotham.”

Wonder Woman, who had just fixed an upturned truck, overheard. “Is there a problem?”

“There’s been an attack in Gotham. There are reports of a toxic gas spreading on the streets. I should go.”

“Kingdom calls,” Clark murmured. If Bruce heard the slight, he ignored it.

“Go where you need to go,” J’onn said. “We are almost finished with repairs here. We should be plenty fine on our own.”

With that, J’onn returned to helping Barry and Hal.

Diana still looked concerned. Bruce’s gaze flickered in her direction, spotting her expression, and he quickly added, “I’ve encountered the criminal responsible once before. The gas isn’t necessarily lethal—but it will cause panic in the streets if I don’t return to Gotham and counter it. I’m going to stop at my safehouse and then head down there.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Diana said and she started to move towards Bruce.

“What are you doing?” he said, bristling as her arms reached for him. She immediately retracted.

“I thought I would carry and fly you to your safehouse,” Diana said simply. Her face seemed thoughtful for a moment. Gaze a little dark but her voice speaking with the utmost grace, she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten that some men find it insulting to be carried by a woman. Perhaps Superman could—”

Bruce put his hand up. “I’m going to take the batwing, thanks.”

“We will meet you there then,” Diana said, nodding.

Clark had to bite back his laughter. It wasn’t often that he caught Batman looking dumbfounded.

“Neither of you are coming with me,” he said shortly.

“That seems unwise. A gas spread on an entire city seems like quite the crisis,” Diana said gravely.

“I have to agree,” Clark said after a moment. “What if you become affected by this gas?”

“The counter-toxin is also a gas, meaning I can release it at a safe distance with the batwing without ever stepping onto the streets.”

“And what about catching the man responsible?” Clark crossed his arms. “After you finish clearing the air, are you going to be able to chase after him?”

At that, Bruce hesitated.

“Let us help you,” Diana said. “We are a team. Just because you would prefer to do it on your own, does not mean that you have to.”

“Last time you two helped me—”Bruce started, the irritation clear in his voice, but Clark cut him off.

“We’ll follow your orders. There’s nothing for us to do here—J’onn and the others have it under control.”

“Fine,” Bruce said reluctantly. “My safehouse isn’t far from here.”

At that, Clark’s brow furrowed. “In Metropolis?”

Bruce gave him a hard look.

“Of course,” Clark said, shutting his mouth. And they followed Bruce to his Metropolis safehouse.

Clark was still in slight disbelief—one, that Bruce had the nerve to have a safehouse in Metropolis, and two, that it was so massive and he had never seen it. Parked inside the safehouse was the batwing, which explained how Bruce was able to travel between the cities so quickly. Clark eyed the rest of the arsenal in the building suspiciously.

The top of the batwing popped open and Bruce held his hand out, signalling for them to stop.

“I’ll grab the counter-toxin. It’s attached to the dispensers in the batwing. You two will be responsible for cleansing the city while I chase after Crane. Wait right here while I grab it.”

 _Wait right here_. Clark nearly rolled his eyes. In other words, ‘don’t go looking at all the inventions I made to one day kick your asses’.

Diana exhaled softly, sounding unhappy. She put her fists on her hips.

“Batman, we’ve known each other for awhile now.”

“Since November of last year, yes,” Bruce said shortly. He was getting ready to climb into the batwing and Diana extended her hand to help him up the tall step—but he ignored it, hopping and climbing up with ease.

“I feel like Superman and I are both deserving of some trust,” she called after him.

Clark wasn’t surprised that she had picked up on the reasoning for Bruce’s orders. But he was surprised that she had the guts to call him out for it.

Bruce paused. “You’re in my safehouse, aren’t you?”

“Your safehouse _in_ Metropolis,” Clark said, brow furrowing. Bruce turned his head toward him.

“Right. I invited you into my safehouse _in_ Metropolis.”

At that, Clark stopped.

“Just don’t touch anything,” Bruce said, grumbling, and he disappeared into the batwing.

Once he was gone, Diana turned in Clark’s direction. She had a big—almost excited, if Clark didn’t know any better—smile on her face. She took a few steps backwards, deeper into the safehouse, her hand gesturing him to follow.

Clark, eyes wide, slowly shook his head in refusal.

Bruce eventually returned. The dispensers were a part of the plane and would normally be heavy. But for Clark, it was light enough to toss around. Somehow in the timespan of Bruce being gone, he had also changed his suit.

“New armor,” Diana said, dispenser resting on her hip. Her voice spoke of approval.

“It’s the Hazbat suit. It’ll allow me chase after Crane without being affected by his toxin.” He nodded toward the dispenser. “The dispenser drops capsules. The capsules break and release the counter-toxin in the form of a gas that can spread to a one block radius within a time frame of 2-5 minutes.”

“Hazbat,” Clark repeated, smiling a little, until Bruce turned towards him sharply. Even behind the white lenses of the cowl, Clark could feel Bruce glaring at him. Clark cleared his throat. “It’s just. You know. Hazardous, Batman. _Hazbat_. It’s kinda whimsical. Cutesy.”

Just by staring at him, without even having to speak a word, Bruce made Clark feel like an idiot. Suddenly Diana hummed softly.

“Hazbat. That is cute,” she agreed.

Bruce just pressed a button on the side of his cowl, a visor fitted with respiratory functions sliding down and covering his face.

“Crane targetted the downtown and Old Gotham districts. I’ll let you two decide what areas to cover,” he said stiffly, quickly climbing into the batwing.

 

Clark waited for a sound, any sound, of life.

He walked down the streets of Metropolis. Empty buildings. Empty cars. Not a single laugh or cry to fill the space. More than that, he didn’t hear the claws of a squirrel or a flap from a pigeon’s wings or the buzz of a single insect.

Just pervasive silence.

He flew to the Daily Planet office building.

The regular visitors—homeless people with change jars, musicians playing guitars and violins for cash, college kids on bicycles, were all missing. He stepped inside the dusty building, without even so much of a spiderweb to decorate it. No secretary sat behind the desk to greet him, no custodian to sweep away the mess.

The elevator still moved. The air inside the box was stale and although Clark wasn’t sharing it with anyone, it felt stifling and cramped. He took it to his office floor and when the doors finally opened, he stared in disbelief.

He waited to feel a shoulder rush into him and a voice to say, _Sorry, Clark, didn’t see you there._ He waited for Perry to storm out of his office, door slamming against the wall, so he could bark at everyone to get back to work. He waited for Jimmy’s apologies and Ron’s polite morning greetings.

None of it came.

Eyes scanning every inch of the place, a sense of dread beginning to grow inside of his stomach, he rounded the corner into the nearest cube. Lois’ chair was empty. Clark waited for Cat to pop her head up to tease Lois about something new—but he knew it wouldn’t come.

Clark took the chair, its frame far too small for him. He rolled up to the desk, grabbing the phone. Not so much as a dial tone and the idea of being unable to even listen to a _recording_ was agonizing.

He set the phone down, catching a newspaper on the corner of the desk. His face fell as he read the headline, staring incredulously at his own image on the faded print.

 _Where is Superman_?

He read on, reading the pleas of the people he did not save as every life on Earth was wiped out—and he didn’t finish reading it. He rose to his feet, the chair crashing to the floor as a single thought came to mind.

His parents.

He raced to Smallville as fast as he could, the vacant cities slowly fading into wilted cornfields. His heart hammered, chest squeezed tight and eyes burning. This couldn’t be real. The whole world could disappear, and it could even be his fault, but he couldn’t accept the fact that his parents could just be _gone_.

He landed on the family farm, sprinting towards the door.

“Ma?” he called. When there was no response, he went down to the basement—if there was a disaster, they’d surely be hiding there. But he upturned every piece of furniture, his heart racing ever faster.

“Pa!” he said, louder now, in case they couldn’t hear him. In case they were still somewhere in this house. He went through every room, ripping off curtains and flipping over beds. Tearing open closet doors.

Panic was starting to settle in. He could feel it threatening to suck out his breath. Could feel it twisting and churning his stomach and rattling through his bones. Heart beating fast, mind racing even faster, as he searched the last area of the Kent property—the barn.

“No. No, no, no,” he whispered to no one but himself. And just as soon as he stumbled into the barn, he stumbled back out, shaking his head to himself. “No, they can’t all be gone. No.”

Not even taking the time to process his grief, his mind hoping against hope that there was something left on the godforsaken planet, desparate just to hear _someone’s_ voice, he headed to the arctic. Even the whistling winds seemed to be a welcome filler to his ears, having suffered from the unending silence for too long.

He entered the fortress, calling for Jor-El in Kryptonian. Even a ghost of his father would be welcome to having _no one_.

“ _Father_ ,” he called.

But the only answer he received was the alien word echoing back to him. He slipped to the floor, knees making contact with the crystal ground, as the realization sunk in.

 _I’m alone_ , he thought. He felt a sudden pounding in his head. He rested his head in his palm, trying to keep everything together. _I’m alone. I’m alone._

More than alone, it was his own fault. Because the world needed him and he failed them.

“You know that’s not true,” a voice whispered to him.

He stopped, unburying his face. He felt a warm hand take his. He glanced down at the gold tied around his fingers.

“You’re never alone.”

Clark looked up, seeing Diana there, the glow of the Lasso of Truth illuminating her face in warm, golden light.

A sudden calm washed over him. He didn’t realize how terrified he had been until his breathing finally began to even out. The shadows and colors of the room began to shift, peeling away to reveal something new.

Clark breathed, taking in his surroundings. There was an acidic smell in the room. No longer in the fortress, he found himself in a dirty, Gotham subway tunnel. He heard another voice, drawing his gaze away from Diana to Bruce. The mask over the Batman cowl had cracked. Bruce was on his knees, fighting off his coughing fit.

“Is he alright?” Clark asked, many more questions running through his mind.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go of the lasso,” Diana said, unspooling it as she walked along, inching closer to Batman.

Bruce’s hands were shaking violently as he kneeled on the ground, hands blindly groping the cold ground. Reaching for what appeared to be an inhaler a few feet away from him.

“Not real,” he muttered, voice breathy. But there was a tone of something determined to it, underneath its shakiness. “Tunnel. You’re in a tunnel.”

“Batman, let me help,” Diana said, crouching by his side. But when she touched his hand to make him hold the lasso, he flinched, pulling away from her. Diana hesitated, a layer of sympathy to her eyes.

“It’s not real,” he said, more insistent. His hand made contact with inhaler, which Clark now recognized as a counter-toxin. “They’re already dead.”

His fingers fumbled to grasp onto the small object properly. By the trembling of his hands, Clark was certain he would drop it—but it passed the cracks of his mask, to his lips. Bruce sucked in a breath, and after a few heaves, the rise and fall of his body slowed down.

“What happened?” Clark asked.

“We were chasing Scarecrow,” Bruce said, catching his breath. “He gassed you with his fear toxin. Last thing I remember was knocking him down.”

“You did capture him,” Diana said, nodding toward the bundled-up man on the ground. Clark could see that he was both tied up and unconscious. “However, you cracked your mask in the process, making you susceptible to the fear gas.”

“Why weren’t you affected?” Clark asked her.

“I was—initially. I saw visions of war. Amazons and humans at battle, so fierce and horrific that I thought Ares himself had cursed me—but the lasso guided me to the truth. It showed me that what I saw were false illusions and nothing more.” Diana turned her head toward Clark. “I thought the same could be done for you. It appears to have worked.”

“You saw war? That was different than what I saw. All life had already been destroyed—I was the only one left alive.”

“The fear toxin targets people in different ways,” Bruce explained, finally getting to his feet. “It targets your worst fears. Thus, it varies per person.”

“You were able to resist the toxin even without the lasso,” Diana said, watching Bruce carefully.

“I’ve encountered it before,” Bruce said. His tone made it clear that he had nothing else to say on the matter—but Diana would not let it rest. She cut off his path.

“You don’t have to face your fears alone,” she said. “Superman and I will always be here.”

“When your fear is loss, it’s better to face your fears alone,” Bruce said shortly, and he walked past her, plucking Scarecrow up off the ground. Clark glanced at Diana and their eyes happened to meet. Clark could sense the layer of concern in her eyes—and he found himself feeling the same.

“Maybe being alone isn’t _your_ worst fear—but I can promise it’s scarier than what it seems,” Clark said. When Bruce ignored him, Clark felt frustration. “You saw an alleyway, didn’t you?”

Bruce stopped, looking at him. He muttered almost resentfully, “And you wonder why I investigated your parents’ house.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s concerning to me that you would have attempted to do this all alone. If Wonder Woman hadn’t been here—”

“Don’t project your own fears onto me, especially when you know what I saw. And don’t tell me not to fear what _you’ve_ never experienced,” Bruce said, a tone of finality to his voice.

At that, Clark backed off. Bruce might have had a point. Clark’s adoptive parents were alive—and Clark had never known he was the only Kryptonian alive until recently. But he was still an alien living on an adopted planet, and since his powers had developed, he had never forgotten that fact. Bruce surely understood what it was like to have no one else—might have even embraced the fact—but at the end of the day, he never had to pretend to be human.

But of course, Bruce didn’t know any of this. Clark kept his origins a secret—from Bruce, from everyone. He looked at Bruce and Diana and wondered if he should tell the truth—but at the moment, given Bruce’s guardedness, Clark hardly saw the point.

Maybe Diana would be understanding—but Bruce was too complicated.

As they headed back towards the surface, Clark looked at the criminal Bruce carried. He shook his head.

“‘Scarecrow’,” he said incredulously. They walked the stairs together to the surface, blinking red and blue lights in the distance. GCPD had been waiting for them. “I can’t believe someone would willingly call himself that.”

“What, have you seen more intimidating ones in your days?” Bruce mocked.

“‘Scarecrow’—I’ve heard the phrase before. It’s a real thing?” Diana said.

“They’re markers that you place in farm fields to scare away crows and other animals from stealing crops. They’re often made of sacks stuffed with hay, to fool birds into thinking they’re human,” Bruce explained.

“You can use stuffed sacks—or just take a stick with an old sweater and a bucket for a head,” Clark said, reminiscing.

“That doesn’t sound frightening at all,” Diana said.

“It isn’t,” Bruce said bluntly, tossing Scarecrow into the back of a police van.

 

They were all gathering into the conference room at the Hall of Justice. Upon entering, Clark was relieved that he wasn't the last one to arrive. It seemed Arthur and Barry were still missing.

Clark glanced over at Bruce, who was standing by the monitors. The monitors had live news feeds from around the globe. Clark hadn't seen him since the Scarecrow incident. When Bruce turned his head, gaze flickering in Clark’s direction, Clark realized too late he had been staring and quickly went to go take a seat.

As Clark sat down, he spotted Barry running in through the doors.

“Hey, you’re back,” Barry said, finally coming to a stop next to Hal. Hal, unable to detect him coming in, jumped in place—nearly spilling his coffee cup. Barry didn’t apologize for startling him, just pretended that he hadn’t noticed, and continued, “You’ve been in space for quite some time.”

“That’s how it works with the Corps,” Hal said, heartrate evening out. He idly swished around the contents of his styrofoam cup. “Been gone, working my tail off, for two weeks now. Finally taking a break now… until the next crisis, I suppose.”

“I get that. Been working on a big case for Central City Police. This is my first full weekend off since—since, well, who knows. It’s all a blur.”

“Is that so? Come out to LA.”

“Can't,” Barry said, finally grabbing a chair. “My fiancé’s nephew is visiting from Keystone.”

“Exciting,” Hal said dryly.

“What, you don't like kids?”

“I'll like _my_ kids.”

“Oh yeah? And who's going to be Mom?” Barry said. When Hal fumbled to come up with a response, Barry just laughed over him. “I'd be willing to bet anyone in this room will have kids before you.”

“How do we even know Clark can _have_ kids? He's got those… super gene things. Is that even compatible with humans?”

“Hey,” Clark said lightly.

“I thought you disliked it when we talked behind your back,” Hal countered. He finally took a sip of his coffee—but then made a face at the taste. J’onn had set them up with a coffee machine a few weeks back but the coffee was never good.

“Fine. Bruce then,” Barry said.

Hal made a face and murmured, “God, can you _imagine_? A mini-Batman. Hopefully I'll be dead before that happens.”

“It doesn't seem like Arthur will be able to attend,” Bruce said, and the timing for him to start the meeting seemed a little intentional. “We'll start by going over the alien infestation in Stockholm.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Hal said. “Didn't think the little buggers would stick to me on the flight back home.”

“What is that?” Diana said suddenly.

“‘Little buggers’? Oh, it's just a phrase—”

“No, I meant on the screen,” Diana said, her face concerned. They all turned to the monitor she was indicating.

Clark frowned when he saw his own image on the screen. He read the tagline in disbelief.

Bruce didn't wait, he pulled up the image on the largest display, the sound coming in through the speakers.

“—footage of what appears to be Superman crossing the Markovian border and setting off a _bomb_ —”

Clark’s brow furrowed, watching the grainy black and grey footage. It was shadowy and dark but there was no mistaking his appearance, glimpses of his emblem showing in the frames. It was the moment with the landmine—he watched as he dove into the ground, the feed then ending as a white flash blinded the screen.

“In response, Markovia has released this video statement.”

Clark could hear every breath in the room go still—trapped in their lungs as they watched the Markovian leaders make their statements. Statements about how Superman was a threat to the country and sending him into Markovian territory was an attack hosted by the American government on the Markovian people. That Superman was a declaration of war.

But it was the suspicious people in the background that concerned everyone. The Markovian soldiers with guns and what appeared to be people blinded with burlap sacks.

The people were dragged to the forefront. The bags pulled off their heads. People of different races who, even at a quick glance, were clearly not Markovian.

It took a second for Clark to recognize them.

“Who are they?” Diana asked quietly.

“The man on the left is Henry Shin,” Barry said. “He used to be a reporter for the _Central City Picture News_. He went undercover to Markovia to report on the labor camps and was captured. He's been a prisoner for months now.”

“Mahmud Moreau is on the right. A French reporter. He ran into the same troubles,” Bruce said. It was clear in his voice that he wasn't happy—but Clark could hear from his heartbeat that he was just as nervous as Clark was.

Clark might have been the one on the tape. But they were both responsible for this.

“Until you give us Superman,” a Markovian said. “We will execute every single one of your spies and smugglers.”

In the displays in the background, Clark now saw his image everywhere. Red capes and symbols. Videos of grainy footage. Markovian accents echoing as the footage played over and over. Taglines that read Markovia, America, Superman, Justice League, United Nations, war, terrorism, execution, hero, villain, alien.

The gun was cocked and the footage ended.

Everyone finally released their breath.

But Clark could hear the heartbeat of every person in the room.

“You went to Markovia?” J’onn said, breaking the silence. His brow was deeply furrowed, red eyes thoughtful.

All eyes were on Clark. Clark looked around the table, his gaze happening to land on Diana. Even she seemed to eye him cautiously, afraid of his answer.

“Yes,” he confessed.

“I thought we agreed we wouldn't jump in,” Barry said. He shook his head. “They killed those prisoners. And now they want you.”

“Well they’re not going to get what they want. We're not going to adhere to the demands of these _monsters_ ,” Hal cut in, voice firm.

“It appears that everyone else thinks otherwise,” J’onn said, head turned in the direction of the monitors. Everyone seemed to be demanding Superman to take some form of responsibility.

“But what will Markovia do once they have Superman?” Diana asked. “At this rate, we will have to march into Markovian territory ourselves and rectify their problems for them.”

“No, no, no,” Barry said. “That is _terrible_ idea. If you upset Markovia, you also upset their allies—”

“What allies?” Hal said, scoffing.

“The ones that have been supplying their country weapons for profit.”

“Heavens no, we can't possibly upset the moneygrubbers,” Hal said sarcastically.

“That’s not what I’m getting at. I mean we'll piss _them_ off and they'll come after Superman too. If we stomp in there, we'll start a war—the Justice League against the world.”

“ _They_ started the war,” Hal and Diana said in unison, their voices heated.

“I thought this was what you wanted to avoid,” Barry said, turning on Hal.

“That was _before_ these assholes started making demands on the Justice League. I didn't want Superman to go into Markovia—but it happened! And the last thing we're going to do is let them _win_ —”

“Why were you in Markovia?” J’onn said, turning back to Clark. “I'd like to give you a chance to speak for yourself instead of reading your mind.”

“Did you really plan to fix Markovia on your own?” Diana said, face falling.

“He wasn't on his own,” Bruce said. “I was there.”

Hal gasped. Bruce turned to him, a stern look on his face.

“Oh come on, I'm not the only one in this room who is surprised, am I?” Hal said, glancing around the table. When no one responded, Hal pointed at Bruce. “He was more adamant about staying out of Markovia than I was!”

“It was nothing _planned_ ,” Bruce said. “At least, not between the both of us. When news broke out about the Markovian schoolhouse, I started to make plans to go there and do what I could to help. It was dangerous but considering the situation, I couldn't stand idly by. I thought my stealth skills would be sufficient enough to get into Markovia, free the labor camp, and get out without being noticed. Superman was never a part of those plans—we happened to run into each other along the way.”

“I also went there because I was sick of doing nothing,” Clark said. “I was sick of being the observer.”

“So what do we do now?” Diana said.

“If Markovia doesn't know that Batman was there, we need to keep it that way,” Barry said. “Otherwise they'll be demanding both of their heads.”

“Or it could alleviate the blame,” Bruce said. Clark blinked in surprise at that.

“It's honorable that you'd be willing to put your name out for the public but I'm worried that this might disrupt peace even further,” Diana said to him.

“I agree,” Clark said.

“And then what of Markovia?” J’onn said. “How many more foreign prisoners do they have?”

“I can pull up the number,” Bruce said.

“We'll have to decide soon what we want to do—to ensure there are no more executions. Maybe we should finally meet with the UN,” Barry said.

“How long is that going to take?” Hal said. “Markovia could be killing people right now.”

“What should I do?” Clark said. And at that, everyone appeared uncertain.

“Lay low,” Bruce said after a moment. “Until we can figure this mess out. The media—and undoubtedly the public—want to tear you apart.”

“Things are worrisome currently,” J’onn said. “But it also appears that it was inevitable for the Justice League to get involved. None of it is your fault, Bruce.”

At that, Bruce turned his head. “What?”

“It’s not your fault,” J’onn said. “It was inevitable that the Justice League would involve themselves in Markovia—and you and Superman saved many innocent lives in the process. While it is unfortunate that two reporters’ lives were taken, many more could have died if not for your commendable actions. With this involvement, and perhaps some cooperation with the UN, perhaps we could save the Markovian people once and for all. You two did what the rest of us _thought_ of doing but were afraid to do.”

“I don’t care about that,” Bruce said with sudden sharpness. Everyone seemed startled by his sudden, uncharacteristic tone. Bruce was never a kind person—but he usually stayed levelheaded, not prone to such quick and sudden anger. Baring his teeth, he said, “ _Fault_. You said it wasn’t my _fault_. Why did you choose that word?”

J’onn paused and the room went silent with him. Clark couldn’t read his blank, red eyes—he never could. Aware that he was treading on thin ice with Batman, J’onn spoke his words carefully, “I apologize. I only wanted to help. On Mars, we would alleviate pain by sharing our thoughts with others. I sensed your unease upon hearing the news about Markovia and it worried me. And so, I slipped into your mind against your will. I overstepped my boundaries. I hope you accept my apology and understand that I only had well-meaning intentions.”

“I don’t ever want you inside my mind unless we’re communicating on a mission,” Bruce said, volume rising. Clark could hear everyone in the room—breaths still, hearts racing. With the exception of J’onn.

J’onn just looked at Bruce, brow furrowing slightly. An almost pained expression on his face, he said sympathetically, “What sense is there in isolating your thoughts? We all suffer. If all earthlings could just share their pain, perhaps there would be less impulse to fight.”

“Because they’re _my_ thoughts,” Bruce snapped.

“Back off,” Hal said, standing up, chair making an ugly noise behind him. “J’onn’s just trying to help. You’re just embarrassed that he reminded everyone that you’re _human_.” Hal threw his arms up, gesturing to everyone at the table. “Look at us. We can’t even get on the same page. Don’t go after the one guy who is just trying to get us all to cooperate.”

“I don’t need to hear lectures about cooperation from _you_ ,” Bruce said, going after Hal. “You consistently cause more problems than solutions.”

“Hey, I apologized about Stockholm—”

“It's not just Stockholm. You are the least consistent member on this team—even more so than Arthur, who barely shows up.”

Hal patted on his chest. “If you want to come after me, come after me. But I’m not going to let you bully _J’onn_ , of all fucking people. And hey, you want to know something else? I think you’re full of shit. I think you’ve been planning to go to Markovia the whole goddamned time, on your own.” Hal waved a dismissive hand, muttering heatedly, “God knows how many fucking secrets you keep underneath those stupid bat ears.”

Bruce shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

“ _I’m_ out of my mind?” Hal said, storming towards him. “You honestly expect me to believe that you developed a way to sneak into one of the most well-protected countries on Earth on a fucking _Tuesday night_? If it wasn’t Markovia, it would have been someplace else. You probably have discovered a way to sneak into every country, fortress, and back alley in the whole goddamned world—”

“Get your hand out of my face,” Bruce said in a low voice, staring down the pointed finger.

“How about you get your _head out of your ass_?” Hal snapped.

What followed afterwards was a loud _thud_ as Bruce snatched the hand, twisting Hal into a hold and pushing him into the table.

“Oh shit, he might kill him,” Barry said, getting to his feet. But Diana already reacted, throwing her lasso around Batman, pulling him off.

“Get this off,” Bruce instantly demanded.

“Not until you're calm,” Diana said. She maneuvered the lasso, trying to get him on his knees without hurting him, but Bruce was struggling against it, awkwardly stumbling as he tried to keep his balance.

“I’ll tear his stupid pointed ears off—”Hal started, ring glowing.

“No, you won’t,” Clark said, already by his side, grabbing his wrist. Barry and J’onn were soon at his side, trying to talk Hal down.

“They killed children—”Clark could hear Bruce say.

“I know,” Diana said, voice lowering. Clark turned back to look at them, watching as her grip tightened. Bruce finally started to sink.

“I told us not to go,” Bruce said, voice haggard. “I told us not to go and they killed kids.”

Diana didn’t say anything. Her mercy came in the form of tightening the lasso that much further, finally bringing Bruce to his knees. Bruce still seemed to be resisting, and even though Clark was sure there wasn’t much he could do, he moved towards them anyways.

“You were right,” Bruce said. Clark stopped in his tracks when Bruce lifted his head—Clark froze, realizing who Bruce was speaking to. “I knew you were right—but I didn't trust you.”

Diana finally released the lasso.

It was a strange, long afternoon. Hal immediately stormed off after the altercation, unwilling to listen to the rest of the team. Everyone took a few moments to settle down and after a long, stiff conversation to establish a plan, everyone in the Justice League moved their separate ways with newly assigned tasks. Clark, instructed to do nothing in order to stay out of the public eye, was the last to exit the conference room, having to take a moment to process what had happened. As he was heading out, he saw Bruce exchanging a few words with Diana, but all he caught was a farewell just before Diana took towards the skies.

Bruce glanced back, seeing that Clark was in the doorway, but said nothing to him. He stalked off in the direction of the parked batwing.

Sighing a little to himself, Clark flew to catch up, cutting off Bruce in his path.

“I know we don't always get along,” Clark started. “But I know we all want the same thing.”

“A drink?” Bruce said shortly. He looked ready to dart past Clark—but he stayed.

“Peace,” Clark said.

“Justice,” Bruce corrected. “All those leaders are going to pay for what they've done. And I'm not going to participate in the UN waiting game to take action.”

Clark had suspected as much.

“Let Diana and J’onn speak with them first.”

“And you're fine with this? Doing nothing while the world brands you as a threat?”

“No,” Clark said. “But whether you meant to or not—you made a good point that day, when you told me that I wasn't limitless.”

“You already heard me,” Bruce said, an edge to his voice. “I knew I was wrong—”

“Because you didn't trust me, I know. But you were still right. ‘Just because I can, doesn't mean I should’. I shouldn't just place my influence on the whole world. Let J’onn and Diana talk to the UN and see if Markovia can reach an agreement on its own.”

“We did the right thing in saving that school,” Bruce said after a moment. “I know we did.”

Bruce finally walked past Clark.

“Batman,” Clark said, stopping him. When Bruce faced him, his expression had already reverted to its hardened state. Clark doubted himself for a moment. Even predicting that Bruce’s response might be unkind, Clark asked anyways, “Do you think we'll ever find peace?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, the cowl pulling forward, his jaw clenching. But he didn't seem to be insulted or annoyed by Clark’s question. He paused, as if pondering an answer.

“Realistically, no,” Bruce said quietly.

Clark wasn't sure what he wanted Bruce to say. But somehow, he felt disappointment swimming in his chest.

“I don't think about the future when I fight crime,” Bruce said, and Clark watched him carefully, not expecting him to actually take the time to speak with him. “I solve cases. I seek justice. My goal isn't to eradicate all the evil in the world. It's simpler than that. My goal is to help people who need help. If I stop to think about it, then I suppose my fight on crime has been a steep hill. Crime rates have gone down in Gotham—but there is _always_ trouble, and I suspect there will be for the rest of my lifetime. I'll likely never see Gotham at complete ease, much less the whole world… but who can say what the future will bring? Maybe a future generation will find peace on Earth.”

Clark considered Bruce’s words. He couldn't narrow himself down to Bruce’s point of view. Clark couldn't focus on a single injustice. His senses wouldn't even allow it—his eyes and ears were always open to all the cruelties in the world.

“Clark.”

Clark looked up in surprise. Bruce was never one to use identities, even in the secrecy of the Hall of Justice.

“When I went to Smallville…” Bruce suddenly stopped. He changed his words, speaking almost bluntly, “It was wrong of me to be suspicious of you. What you did in Markovia proved that.”

Bruce said nothing more, brushing past Clark.

Clark waited outside the Hall of Justice, the lights finally coming down. Without the sounds of his teammates, the Hall seemed eerily quiet.

He pondered over his instructions to lay low and supposed a lot of his future nights would be quiet now.

Thinking about it brought a strange ache to his chest. He didn’t think he would—but he missed the arguing.

 

“Let me tell you about _Kryptonopolis_ , the place of your birth. Imagine a city set upon water where the horizon stretches into the open ocean, and you can watch the red sun set and rise on the waves. The waters move in canals throughout the city, flowing underneath bridges.

“On Krypton, wind is mild and sun is essential. So imagine floating constructs in the sky, like bubbled houses, made of a material like glass. And buildings with open archways in place of doors and windows, their frames so thin it's almost skeletal in comparison to the buildings of Earth, their materials in shimmering gold, green, and light blue. Privacy comes in the forms of dividers, often curtains made of cloth or weaved flowers, or a thin, stone-like material that changes colors.

“The center of the land is also the highest point of the city, as most Kryptonian cities are. The buildings, walkways, bridges—they all spiral upwards into the shrine of Rao, a structure that draws on the power of the red sun that fuels the entire city. At all hours of the day and even at night, the spire glows with Rao’s light. And all throughout the city you can see the structures of the gods—Cynthonna, Yuda, Flamebird, Nightwing, and more.

“As the largest city of Krypton, it is always bustling with life. Kryptonians move about by walking through the pathways and open buildings, or transport themselves on floating platforms and ships.

“Since becoming the new capital city, Kryptonopolis became the meeting place for Kryptonians around the world. For instance, the planet’s greatest scientists and designers gathered from every major city to construct this particular academy, where children from all corners of Krypton joined in study…”

Clark listened to Jor-El’s voice. He levitated in the center of a tall dark room, Jor-El’s projections the only light that shone through the room. Each projection surrounded him, as if Clark could explore it for himself if he chose to. His gaze lingered on each image displayed before him and he could see every detail that Jor-El described to him. The canals, the houses, the Kryptonians.

He particularly focused on this school that Jor-El spoke of.

He watched Kryptonian children, of all shapes and sizes and manner of dress, learning and playing side by side.

But all he could see in his mind were the dirtied, sunken faces of the Markovians.

He watched the tiny, healthy bodies all engaging in conversation about school and life and all he could see were stick thin arms and swollen bellies, near mute, eyes absent of curiosity.

He saw a school, built together by an entire city for a whole world, and all he could imagine was someone planting a landmine in soil.

And it was nothing he hadn't seen before but it suddenly punched him in the gut.

In the midst of Jor-El’s speech, Clark lowered himself to the ground and walked towards the exit.

“Kal-El?” Jor-El asked tentatively, but Clark didn't acknowledge it.

Couldn't acknowledge it.

 

After a long day of work, covering the Markovia and Superman situation, Clark finally went home. He had spent the past few nights in the fortress, occupying his time with conversations and studies concerning Krypton. He was learning more and more of his origins each day—this near paradise of a planet, learning of their culture, the history of the House of El, and his grasp on the language was now fluent enough that he could read and have basic conversation with Jor-El in Kryptonian.

Yet everyday he spent talking about glorious Krypton, Clark felt the desire to wear the cape and suit again. For all the stress that Superman caused him, it was still an essential piece of who he was. The fortress was the only place he could go to escape the cries for help and forget about the hate the public had for him—but it was also a reminder of all his duties to the planet on which he was raised.

What was once a place of solace now tormented him.

He had just entered his apartment was kicking off his shoes when he heard a voice.

“It’s been difficult getting ahold of you.”

Clark instantly scowled. He looked at the source of the voice—craning his neck to get a good look at the ceiling. He huffed a little, tugging his shoes back on and taking the stairs up to the roof.

“Why are you on my roof?” he said, not bothering to lower his voice for his neighbors.

From the shadows, Bruce responded, “I figured it was better than meeting you inside your apartment.”

Whether Bruce had shown up in the inside of his apartment or on his rooftop, this all still seemed like _trespassing_ to Clark.

“Better yet, why are you _following me_ again?” Clark said, rubbing his eyes. “Can’t you get a better hobby?”

“I wouldn’t even be here if you were easier to contact. The Justice League sent me for you when you wouldn’t pick up your phone,” Bruce responded. His dark uniform kept him concealed in the night’s shadows and his low voice could only be picked up by Clark’s heightened hearing. Clark approached him, thinking up his excuse with every step—he wasn’t about to let Bruce know about the fortress in the arctic.

“I was in Smallvile. Sometimes I don’t get cell phone service in the countryside.”

Bruce stared him down long and hard—but he didn’t voice whatever suspicions he may have had. Instead he scolded Clark, saying, “Part of laying low means not using your powers. I suggest taking the phrase ‘lay low’ a little more literally.”

“Well, having _you_ on my rooftop doesn’t make this any less conspicuous.” Clark shook his head a little. They were getting offtrack. He’d rather get back to business than listen to Bruce’s lecture. “What can I help you with?”

“The Justice League has met with the UN. The UN is willing to cooperate with Markovia— _if_ they close their labor camps, forfeit their weapons, and their leader steps down. If they agree, then Markovia will be back in good standing and be provided with financial assistance necessary to feed their people. The UN wants you to deliver a message.”

“Markovia has refused such offers before. Agreeing to such terms also means forfeiting themselves to the countries that had control of them before their revolution—and they don’t want to lose their independence,” Clark said. “Why would they agree now?”

“Again,” Bruce said, looking at him. Clark frowned. “They want _you_ to deliver it.”

 

“They’re going to hate you for this, you know,” Arthur said.

“J’onn already told me about their weapons and Diana gave me some pointers on how to avoid them. I think I can take it,” Clark said, adjusting his sleeves.

“It’s not just Markovia,” Arthur said, voice grave. “I’m talking about everyone. When the world sees what you’re really capable of, they won’t focus on the things you’ve done to protect them. They won’t see your humanity. They’ll only remember the things that separate you from them—the things that make you an outsider.”

Clark followed Arthur’s steady gaze on the Markovian border. The rest of the League was speaking with representatives of the UN, compiling the agreement that Superman was asked to drop off. Body feeling suddenly heavy with the burden he was about to take on, Clark looked at Arthur, knowing perfectly well that the King of Atlantis was speaking from personal experiences. Clark found himself wondering what pressing matters were inevitably on Arthur’s shoulders.

“I appreciate you being here. I know that trying to keep Earth and Atlantis on friendly terms hasn’t been very… rewarding.”

“Well, when the world hates and fears you for what you’re about to do, I want you to have as many allies as you can have by your side,” Arthur said simply.

“If being the most hated man alive is what it takes to create peace…” Clark trailed off. Arthur finally tore away from Markovia, and there was a look of mutual understanding passed between the two.

“A good answer,” Arthur said. He finally moved to join the rest of the League. “We’ll be here when you need us.”

Clark finally grabbed the agreement, placed in a bulletproof, fireproof case. The case was forged on Themyscira and its hardiness did not affect its weight. The case easily clipped onto the back of Superman’s belt, where his cape added as extra protection. Leaving the Justice League behind him, Clark took off—flying toward the border.

He avoided the gate and the minefield by air. He saw the watchtowers, tall and foreboding, in his peripherals. He knew even without hearing or seeing them that he had Markovian guards watching him.

But he did not know how far he’d be able to go before they would finally make their strike.

He abruptly heard it from miles away—the sudden pop and hiss of a missile rocketing towards him, gaining on him fast. It homed in on him and he picked up the speed of his flight, racing against it. Using his x-ray vision to find an unoccupied building to use as a shield, he crashed through a window and let the missile burst itself.

The ceiling crumbled down around him but his heat vision cut through any steel beam or debris that threatened to get in his way.

More missiles, firing off one after another. He slowed in the middle of an otherwise empty area, gazing back at the herd of missiles coming toward them. He wouldn’t be able to outfly them—he used his heat vision to cut into as many as he could, detonating them into one another, a wave of heat and the smell of smoke hitting him first, and he braced himself for the rest.

The explosions pushed him into the ground. When the smoke cleared, he unburied himself from the dust, shrugging off the dirt and shrapnel, feeling a deep ache in his body. Based on J’onn’s intel, the missiles were the heaviest—although not the last—of Markovia’s defenses. Clark picked himself up and immediately heard the zip of a bullet cutting through the air. The enhanced bullets struck him, even managing to scratch his skin and suit. He looked for the source, finding the snipe on a scaffold. He zapped one of the beams—not enough to harm the marskmen, but enough to force him to hang onto a railing rather than aim his gun.

Clark continued his way down the street, the sounds of gun shots following him, bullets nipping at him as he made his trek. In front of the building that housed Markovia’s leader, lines of marksman and tanks waited for him.

With a shout of command, they fired. Clark dodged the larger ballistics coming from the tank and ignored the rest. This was the second phase J’onn had warned him about—and after the damage from the missiles, Clark could admit that he was a little tired and the bullets were beginning to sting, but it was still nothing in comparison to damage he had taken in the past.

He moved past them, not bothering to acknowledge them as they shot at him. The sounds of their loud gunfire filled the air like fireworks, the sounds making Clark’s heart jump against his chest. He could hear the bullets zipping as they ricocheted off his body.

Clark heard the first click. A gun that had run out of bullets. Followed by another. Then another. The frenzy of rounds began to slow to a stop. Clark walked his way through the crowd of soldiers—maybe their guns could have been replenished. Maybe some of them were still loaded, even. But Clark could see in their widened eyes that they realized it was fruitless.

Clark parted the sea of soldiers, pushing open the front door. The heads of the guards turned like owls, watching him as he strode toward their leader’s office. Finally, standing on each end of the desk was a guard—and when Clark’s eyes happened to land on one of them, he could hear the guard’s heartrate spike in response. Panicked, he fired off a shot. But like all the others, it did nothing.

Clark stopped in front of the leader’s desk. He reached behind him, pulling out the dented case. He placed it on the desk before him, popping it open. The agreement inside was a little dusty but otherwise unharmed. Clark wiped off the dust with the back of his hand and turned the case around, sliding it across the surface.

Upon making eye contact, the leader finally spoke instead of staring slackjawed.

“If you surrender now,” he said, swallowing, heart racing. “There will be no more prisoners’ deaths.”

“While you were attacking me, the Justice League has already infiltrated your prisons and taken back all foreign prisoners. You have no more hostages,” Clark said. “Here’s the agreement. I suggest you read over it carefully and close the labor camps that hold your own people hostage as well.”

Having nothing else to do or say, Clark turned on his heel and headed back.

“You’re not human.”

At that, Clark paused. He looked back at Markovian’s leader with a flat expression.

“I never killed anyone,” he said pointedly. And he walked out.

 

“What's the big deal? Now Markovia knows it can't fuck around without the Justice League watching them.”

“It starts with Markovia. Then Superman takes over all the little countries he can bully around.”

“Superman hasn't _taken over_ anything.”

“ _Yet_. You saw him take on that bomb. It barely even scratched him… think of how many weaponless countries there are. He could just skip right on in.”

Clark tuned out the voices in the subway. He continued his way into work, passing by a graffiti littered wall—his eyes catching a crossed out Superman symbol as he climbed the steps.

Outside the subway station seemed to be a rally of sorts. He ignored the painted signs and the voice coming through the speakerphones—all claiming Superman to be the aspiring dictator of the world. He wove his way through the crowd, their chanting almost like drums to his ears.

Outside the Daily Planet, a security officer was talking heatedly to a group of people in robes and red capes. Clark managed to catch Cat, who was finishing up her cigarette.

“What's going on?” Clark asked her. Cat shrugged.

“Some Superman occultists trying to meet with Perry.”

“Superman occultists?” Clark said, raising an eyebrow.

As if sensing their conversation, one old woman from the crowd came up to them, grabbing onto Cat’s arm.

“Doomsday is coming!” she said, voice shrill, and Cat immediately tried to tug her arm back. “We must all swear fealty to Superman now, before the end is near!”

“Back off, lady, I never said you could touch me,” Cat said, scoffing as she finally yanked her arm away. She stomped out the remainder of her cigarette with her heel and retreated into the building.

“Doomsday,” the woman said in a shaky voice, her trembling hands reaching for Clark instead.

“I can't help you,” Clark said gently, looking into her distant, fearful eyes. She continued muttering to herself until security shepherded her back to the rest of her group.

Clark frowned a little, feeling this heaviness inside of him. Eyes on the floor, he disappeared into the building.

Jimmy managed to catch up with him as he boarded the elevator.

“Hey. Free donuts for everyone,” Jimmy said, pressing the floor button to the studio. Clark really should have been going straight to his cube—but Jimmy’s chipper smile made him decide against it. Maybe he could use a pick-me-up.

Clark followed Jimmy out the elevator. Jimmy seemed to have smelled the donuts even at a distance—he found the tables straightaway and immediately started loading his plate with multiple flavors. Steve Lombard was leaning against the nearby wall.

“Morning Steve,” Clark greeted.

“Hey,” Steve said idly, not looking at him. “How’s your article going?”

“I finished up the one about the homeless problem in Metropolis. I'm really hoping it'll convince the readers to take action,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses.

“Sounds fun,” Steve said distantly.

Clark finally followed his gaze, saw Lois speaking with Perry.

“It's weird, you know,” Steve said, brow furrowing. “Some days she looks like a nerd. And then other days she's like… a hot nerd.”

“She's just wearing makeup,” Clark said, catching an assistant fixing Lois’ hair.

“I don't know what it is,” Steve said, still not listening. Clark left him to his musings.

When the studio doors opened, Lois’ interviewee came in with an entire entourage. Clark nearly dropped his powdered donut onto his shirt when he saw who it was.

“Whoa,” Jimmy said. “I wonder if he's the one who paid for the catering.”

Perry and Lois showed Lex Luthor around the studio. Perry’s eyes managed to catch Clark’s from across the room. It was the first time Clark wasn't completely invisible—and the timing couldn't have been more awkward.

“Kent, get over here,” Perry called and Clark didn't dare to disobey. “This is Clark, another of our reporters.”

“Lex Luthor,” Luthor said proudly, shaking Clark’s hand firmly. Clark just smiled back awkwardly, his grip not nearly as firm as Lex’s, which practically squeezed in comparison. Clark didn’t feel it much—but he could see the strain in Lex’s hand.

“I know. We’ve met before,” Clark said.

“We have?” Lex said, taken aback, but his trademark smile unwavering.

Clark shoved his hands in his pockets, shrinking in place a little. “Back in Smallville. It’s me, Clark Kent.”

There was a flicker in Lex’s eyes—but just as quickly, he shrugged dismissively and said, “Sorry! I can’t say I recognize you. Smallville was so… so long ago.”

“Right,” Clark said, forcing his smile.

He figured as much.

Suddenly, Lex snapped his fingers. He waved a finger.

“Wait a minute. I remember now. You didn’t wear glasses back then. You were the quarterback!”

“No, that was never me,” Clark said, and he quietly tucked away any questions he had about Lena’s health into the back of his mind, right alongside a few old lunchtable memories.

A member of the crew approached them. “We're ready to begin.”

“Perfect,” Lois said, and she and Lex moved toward the set. Cameras were already placed in position, lights on. Perry was distracted once again and Clark took that as his cue to scurry away.

Jimmy had already disappeared so Clark went toward the coffee machine. He picked up one of the styrofoam cups, recognizing the brand name as one of Lex Luthor’s properties. Maybe Lex did cover the catering.

In the background, Clark could hear Lois and Lex’s interview.

“The issue with Superman is that he's an easy way out,” Lex said. Superman’s name was everywhere in the news these days—hell, Clark’s assignment for the day was to write an article about the increase of military spending since the Markovia incident—but hearing Lex speak his moniker finally drew Clark’s attention. He turned around, watching Lois and Lex stare each other down. “When humans begin to depend on these so-called ‘superheroes’, we only stunt our own development. We become reliant on forces such as Superman to protect us instead of focusing on, say, technological developments.”

“When you say ‘developments’, do you mean developments such as weapons research?”

“Lois, as the daughter of General Lane, you should know more than anyone that they're not just weapons. They're America’s _defenses_.” At the mention of her father, Lois’ eyes narrowed, but she kept her mouth firmly shut. Lex went on without skipping a beat, as if he hadn't noticed he said anything wrong. “What if this ‘Superman’ turned rogue? Who would save us then?”

“Everything Superman has done thus far has indicated that he wants peace. He’s even saved Metropolis on many occasions. What reason do you have that leads you to believe that Superman will turn his back on humanity?”

“Because he's not human,” Lex said simply.

Clark stared.

“We don't know anything about Superman—other than the fact that he can fly, see through objects, freeze and burn things, and can benchpress like a madman,” Lex said, giving this strange smile, as if he could just laugh at the idea of it all. “My theory is that he was either created as a weapon or he's an alien lifeform. Either way, he's one of a kind, and certainly nothing human, and therefore he has no loyalty to us.”

“You really believe Superman might not be a metahuman?”

“We've yet to catalogue any metahuman with Superman’s abilities. Is it really so incredulous to believe he's from outer space? Just a few weeks ago, there was an alien invasion in Stockholm. His teammates consists of a space cop and a green martian. There was no evidence of Superman’s existence until just a few years ago—making his very sudden appearance all the more suspicious.”

“Interesting. So you don't believe Superman has any loyalty to our planet?”

“I believe Superman, through his simple existence, is detrimental to human society regardless of which side he takes.” Lex leaned back in his recliner, waving a hand. “Take LexCorp, for example. American-owned and made. We could outsource to other countries—it’d be cheaper, easier. But we feel we have a duty to the American people to provide secure, reliable products. In the process, we create jobs, furthering the research and economy of our country. We do this entirely out of pride for our heritage and loyalty and the quality of our brand, rather than taking the easy way out.”

There was a flicker of confusion in Lois’ face, clearly trying to puzzle how Lex’s points fit together.

“‘American-made’,” Lois repeated thoughtfully. “That brings up another point I wanted to discuss with you. I understand there have been some controversies surrounding workers’ rights in LexCorp’s manufacturing products. For instance in Keystone, a union-driven town, there have been some protests regarding workers’ rights—”

“Lois, that is an excellent point, but first, let’s get back to Superman...”

Clark watched and listened to Lex ramble on from afar. From behind him, Clark could hear someone using the coffee dispenser.

“God, this Superman talk makes me sick,” Ron said, grumbling.

Despite Clark’s apprehensions, he had to ask, “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“Who, Superman?” Ron said, coffee cup in hand. He adjusted his glasses. “No, of course not. He _is_ a hero. Remember that subway crash back in January?”

Clark remembered a little too well. The high speed bullet train went off the rails and even with his strength and speed, it was a miracle he had caught it in time. He nodded in response. Ron pointed a thumb at himself.

“I was on that train,” he said with a smile. Clark blinked, having always considered Ron a friend, but never knowing this. “Seeing that man—or whatever he is—up close, I can say that if he really wanted to _control_ humans, he could have done it a long time ago. It’s all this _talk_ about him that really makes me mad.”

Ron stopped to take a sip. He sighed heavily.

“You want to know how to make Superman into an enemy? You turn him into all the things you say he is. You call him an alien. You call him a villain. You _isolate_ him and make him forget what he’s fighting for. _That’s_ how you make a bad guy.”

In the background, Lois continued her interview.

“What do you say in response to Lexcorp’s new factory plant in Metropolis? Apparently, many have had complaints about pollution in the area.”

“Lois, it’s _Metropolis_. A city of _eight million_ people. Of course there’s pollution.”

“There are a lot of things wrong in this world,” Ron continued. “I don’t want Superman to become one of them.”

“I don’t think he will,” Clark said, gaze lowering.

Clark meant it. But even so, he couldn’t help but feel like his words were more of a promise than a fact.

 


	3. Part 3

The fortress used to be a place that Clark would go to for peace of mind. To focus on anything but his tasks as Superman. The one place where he could find peace and quiet.

But this place, so distanced from civilization, that filled his head with the philosophies and words and dreams of a long vanished planet—served as great escapism, but did not solve the problem.

“Is it wrong of me to help them?” Clark said, and it felt more like a question for himself. “I thought after Markovia released its people from their camps and prisons, the public would understand that I had no choice. But they seem to hate and fear me more than ever before. It’s not that I necessarily mind it. They’re free to their opinions. But a part of me fears that there’s some truth to their criticisms. Am I doing this for them or am I doing this for me?”

Jor-El listened carefully to Clark’s words. Even for an alien projection, his facial expressions could be remarkably human. Clark wondered if he was worrying Jor-El unnecessarily with his problems—but he felt like he had few people to turn to. He lived a double-life, with the League and his parents being the only ones who knew his identity. His parents certainly had their opinions, willing to support Clark through anything, and the Justice League all had divided thoughts on what Clark should do with his powers.

“When I discovered that Krypton was dying, I spoke to my colleagues. Many of them argued against my findings. For them, it was easier to accept that they were safe, rather than face the truth—that our ancestors’ actions had doomed our planet. It might have been easier to give up but my conscience would not allow it. I lost my titles and was often warned that I would bring shame upon my house. If it wasn’t for Lara and my brother, I suppose I might have given up. And if I had given up, I might not have worked on the spaceship that saved your life,” Jor-El said. Clark listened, letting the words sink in—they were comforting but he still was filled with so much doubt. Seeming to sense this, Jor-El said in a gentler voice, “Would you have been more comfortable with yourself if you had done nothing?”

“No,” Clark said after a moment.

“If I’m truthful, it worries me that you are experiencing these issues. Part of me wonders if I was wrong in sending you to Earth,” Jor-El said. He paused, waiting for Clark’s confirmation or denial.

Clark thought about his parents. About Lana and Pete. About Lois and Jimmy and Ron. About the Justice League—J’onn, Hal, Barry, Arthur. Diana. Bruce.

Maybe humankind was a lost cause—but the idea of just _quitting_ didn’t feel right by Clark. At the end of the day, no matter what his failure, he felt better knowing that he could protect people. That he could at least try.

“I should go back,” Clark said. “I should spend more time with everyone else instead of… escaping here.”

At that Jor-El’s gaze lowered. But he eventually nodded in agreement.

“Earth is your home now. Don’t let humans repeat Krypton’s mistakes. Preserve this planet. I’ve taught you much about Krypton—and this place will always be here for you when you’d like to learn more about who you are. Or, even if you just need someone to talk to.”

“I’ll visit,” Clark promised.

Before Clark could add anything else to the conversation, he heard something in the distance. He turned his head towards the source of disturbance. Another room, on one of the higher levels.

“What is it?” Jor-El asked.

“Nothing. I thought I heard something.”

“Someone did enter the fortress about an hour ago.”

Clark felt like someone had snapped him out of his sleep.  His head whipped back in Jor-El’s direction. “What do you mean? Are you telling me another person is in here?”

“A person, perhaps. Or a creature. I’m informed as to when the fortress opens and closes—not necessarily who or what for. But the fortress opens in response to living warmth—such as the heat of your palm.”

Clark mentally reminded himself to have a talk about that security flaw.

He looked up at the ceiling, feeling unsure as to what could be more dangerous—a human or a monster.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I walked in?” Clark said.

“I didn’t think it was of any importance,” Jor-El said. He seemed to sense Clark’s concern, his frown growing. “Why are you so worried, Kal-El?”

“I’ve made a lot of enemies recently and any one of them could be following me.”

Jor-El’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “I thought you were the strongest being on this planet. Who could possibly hurt you?”

“I’m not afraid they’ll hurt me. I’m afraid they’ll find out too much.”

“Find out what, exactly?”

“Just wait here. Stay out of sight,” Clark said and he took flight, moving swiftly through the fortress to the upper levels, his x-ray vision picking up a moving body inside one of the rooms.

He soon found himself in the room stored with Kryptonian objects, the deactivated Eradicator encased in the corner. He stayed floating in the room for a moment, watching the intruder carefully. He finally landed on the ground, making the softest sound upon contact. A sound that was instantly picked up.

Batman whipped around, a batarang in his hand—but he stilled his hand from tossing it.

“What are you doing here?” Clark asked incredulously. It was strange enough that he was there—stranger still that he had managed to travel through the extreme conditions of the arctic to make it. His uniform seemed more gray than black, with an almost reflective surface that picked up the whites and blues of the fortress’ natural materials, depending on how the light hit him. A suit made to camouflage in the snow, Clark guessed.

When Clark was searching the fortress for his intruder, his x-ray vision couldn’t quite visualize who the person was. Clark had thought nothing of it—but the enforced plates of Bruce’s suit appeared to have iron particles.

He found himself wondering how much of it was really necessary for the cloaking technology.

Bruce didn’t answer at first. He circled around the room, never quite turning his back to Clark, his eyes flitting back and forth between all the items in the room and Clark.

“What is all of this?” Bruce said. There was an edge to his voice—a layer of suspicion that couldn’t quite be masked. Clark eyed the batarang that he still held in his hand, poised as if he were ready to throw it at any given moment.

Looking at it, Clark’s jaw clenched.

Clark crossed his arms, feeling a small amount of frustration begin to build up in his chest. Bruce following him around was nothing new—but with the suit, he must have gone to great lengths to stalk Clark to the _one_ place where he could find peace. The fortress was Clark’s secret—and the last person he wanted inside the building was Batman. With everything that was going on in Clark’s life, he was far from the patient man he used to be.

“Answer my question first or get out.”

At that, Bruce finally came to a pause. They stood at a great distance from each other, from the opposite ends of a row, shelves riddled with alien technology on either side of them.

“I followed you. You haven’t been at your home in Metropolis or in Smallville.”

“ _Smallville_?” Clark repeated, nearly scoffing. He took a moment to breathe, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t want you going near my parents ever again. I could forgive it the first time but now you’re stalking me across the entire globe—”

“You’re an enemy to people around the world—your disappearances were concerning and _suspicious_ ,” Bruce said. Rather than his usual blunt and composed voice, there was something else there. Clark listened to Bruce’s heartbeat, which was racing. Clark just now noticed the straps of a harness, hidden by the folds of a cape.

Did Bruce have supplies strapped to his back—or had he prepared himself for something of an even greater threat?

Clark was tempted to use his x-ray vision and find out. But he stopped himself—reminding himself that this was supposed to be his teammate.

“I was laying low. It was what everyone wanted me to do,” Clark protested.

“Yes—but the question was, _where_?” Bruce’s voice picked up, a silent man whose words were suddenly tumbling out of him: “My scanners don’t recognize the materials of this place. There is writing that doesn’t remotely resemble _anything_ on Earth and all these objects—”

“You knew I landed on Earth in a spaceship.”

“But from _where_? Hal’s ring gives him information on everything in the galaxy but even he couldn’t figure out who you are.”

“How do you know about that?” Clark said, eyes narrowing. He remembered having that conversation with Hal—from what felt like ages ago, in the Hall of Justice. On the same day Clark and Bruce had butted heads on the Markovia situation. Clark could feel his composure beginning to break. “How long have you been _watching_ me?”

“When are you going to tell me what all of this is?” Bruce said, raising his voice, gesturing an arm around the room.

Clark could hear it. Heart hammering now. It’s like the day in Markovia all over again, with the landmine...

“Because if you ask me, these look like _weapons_ ,” Bruce said, not bothering to sit through Clark’s silence.

Clark shrugged a heavy shoulder. “Maybe? I don’t know what they are yet. This whole building came from my home planet of Krypton—but I came to Earth as just a baby, I have no recollection of any of these things. I can’t tell you what they are.”

“I saw a spaceship in one of the other rooms. It couldn’t have possibly carried all of this.”

“It didn’t. It arrived in the Eradicator—”

“The Eradicator?” Bruce repeated, taking a step back. Voice more pressing than ever, he said, “You mean the object that _attacked_ Earth?”

“I disabled it and brought it here and then this fortress unravelled. The Eradicator was programmed to preserve all Kryptonian culture, but it malfunctioned and tried to destroy other things. But I stopped it.” He didn’t need to hear or feel Bruce’s suspicion. Clark knew how crazy it all sounded. Almost desperately, he added, “Listen to me—if I felt like I couldn’t control these things, I would destroy them immediately. But they’re all linked to my past. I never knew where I came from or who I was until I had this fortress—”

“Ridiculous,” Bruce said at once. “This place came from an object that is dangerous. How do you even know any of this is real? How do you know that it’s linked to your heritage?”

Clark could come up with words on a page rather easily. But he was a good writer, not a good speaker, and he failed to come up with a proper explanation that didn’t involve describing a computer hologram of an alien ghost.

Bruce didn’t wait for Clark to come up with a story.

“You're harbinging a _weapon_ —not just a weapon, an entire _arsenal_ of alien technology—”

“No, I'm _not_ ,” Clark barked back.

“Then how else do you explain this?!” Bruce yelled.

“I don't—”Clark started, but he stopped, the realization sinking. “I don't know.”

Bruce stared him down, far from satisfied with that answer.

“I'm contacting the League,” Bruce said, his tone final. He strode briskly toward the exit, cape flitting behind him. “They need to know about this. They need to know so we can destroy it.”

“You can't do that!” Clark called after him. When Bruce ignored him, Clark flew out in front of him, cutting off his path in an instant. He felt less angry and more desperate—because he knew, deep down, there was nothing he could do to stop Bruce once he set his mind on something. Not in any way that was peaceful, at least, and for all of their arguments and all the stress Bruce caused him… he really didn't want to fight him. “This all belongs to me. You can't just get rid of it. These things are valuable to me.”

“You just admitted to me that you're harboring weaponry that you don't understand or know how to control! What part of that sounds safe to you? The League has every right to get involved, and this stuff needs to be gone before someone with worse motives than me breaks in!”

“Who would break in _besides you_?” Clark said, clenching his fists in frustration.

His words and pleas weren't enough to sway Bruce. Clark could see it in his stern expression. A strange feeling filled Clark’s chest, twisting at him like a sadness. He felt betrayal.

“I don't understand,” Clark said, voice lowering. “In Markovia, you were willing to keep secrets. And when the whole world wanted my head, you were willing to share the blame. And _now_ you want to turn me into the League? You want to call me _dangerous_ , just like everybody else?”

Clark heard something. A skip in Bruce’s heartbeat. There was a flicker of something—of hesitation—but Bruce quickly resumed his frown.

“I can't trust you, not when everyone's safety is on the line.”

“Do you think I'm dangerous?” Clark asked again, more firmly this time.

Bruce brushed past him. Clark grabbed his shoulder.

“Bruce, answer me.”

“It's not about you being dangerous,” Bruce said, shrugging off the hand. “The problems that these objects could cause—”

“You mean the problems _I_ could cause,” Clark said. “I can save a school of children—and the entire world just increases their military budgets.”

Bruce didn't say anything.

“There are days where I think I just bring more problems to this planet. But if I believed the world would be a better place without me, I'd leave in an instant. You know that, right? I'd run away, if it meant protecting the people I love,” Clark said. When Bruce remained silent, Clark sighed and asked again, “Do you think I'm dangerous?”

Bruce didn't get the chance to answer. A projection entered, fazing from the floor and lifting itself into the room. Upon seeing movement, Bruce jumped away.

Bruce froze, heartbeat racing as he stared down the blue and white image of Jor-El.

“Who are you?” he demanded instantly.

Clark felt nervous. This wasn't quite the best time for introductions—and there was something in Jor-El’s expression. Something almost cautious as he stared down Batman, as if observing him and deciding if he was a threat.

“This is my father, Jor-El,” Clark said. He took a few steps forward, between Jor-El and Bruce. After a moment, Clark reconsidered his words. He corrected himself, copying Jor-El’s own words that he used to describe himself, saying, “Rather, he is a sentient projection of Jor-El, stored with his thoughts and memories. This entire place, the Fortress of Solitude, stores information from the extinct planet, Krypton, from which I came from—and who I am. He’s the one who explained to me about my origins—all of this, the whole reason why I’m even on Earth, is because of him.”

“Your father,” Bruce repeated, staring past Clark at the projection. His words conveyed no particular emotion, but Clark heard the way his heart skipped a beat.

“I don't know a lot of the things this place contains,” Clark said, gaze lowering. “A lot of it doesn't make sense to me. But when I'm here, I feel it. That this is part of me.”

“You're jeopardizing mankind out of _curiosity_.” Bruce said, back on the defensive. He shook his head, his frown deepening. “You told me your parents were farmers from Smallville. So which is it? Them, or this _ghost_? Are you here to protect Earth, or to protect this _Krypton_?”

Clark turned his head, eyes resting on Jor-El. Clark swallowed, sudden uncertainty carving its way into his chest. The projection was looking back at him. The image of Jor-El was dressed in regalia he had never worn, a symbol emblazoned on his clothing for a House of people that Clark would never meet, a _projection_ that existed purely as a result of his father’s scientific  achievements, and he breathed life through technology that Clark didn't understand. But when he looked at Clark, he looked with a face and eyes that mirrored his own.

"Can't it be both?” Clark said.

Clark could hear a subtle exhale. Bruce didn’t like that answer. Clark held out a gentle hand, gesturing Bruce to calm down.

“It's okay—”he tried.

“What is all this?” Bruce said, staring at Jor-El. “Why did you bring this all to Earth?”

“This fortress was all stored inside the Eradicator, an artifact meant to preserve all things Kryptonian and destroy all else. I reprogrammed it to deliver the fortress, my memories, and various items from Krypton, to Earth, where my son, Kal-El, could study his culture and learn his history.”

“‘Destroy all else’,” Bruce repeated flatly, and at that, Clark tensed. He really didn’t want the Eradicator dragged back into this.

“Yes. The Eradicator was only meant to preserve Kryptonian culture.”

“And it could harm anything Earth-related?”

“It could—but I have programmed it not to. I do not wish to harm anything, especially this planet on which my son resides.”

Clark lost Bruce. He knew it the minute the man shook his head.

“I can't take that risk. I can't,” he said, almost to himself, and he left. Clark followed him through the door, into the central opening, Jor-El and Lara’s statues shadowing over them.

Clark couldn't bear it any longer, his father’s memory on the balance.

“Bruce,” he called after him. “I’m not letting you leave until you've completely thought this through.”

Bruce’s heavy footsteps slowed to a stop.

“Are you threatening to hold me here?” Bruce said, looking over his shoulder.

Clark couldn't see any way around it. “Yes. You've invaded my fortress, you're going to jeopardize the last remnants of my heritage, and you want to turn the League against me.”

“I’m not turning the League against you. You turned the League against yourself,” Bruce said, the slightest hint of a growl to his voice.

He stalked toward the exit. Clark cut him off.

Grinding his teeth, Bruce tried to go around him.

Clark almost considered letting him go—but then he cut him off again.

“I'm warning you, Kent,” Bruce said with a growl. “You’re turning yourself into an enemy. You don’t want that. For all your powers, deep down, you’re nothing but a weak marshmallow of a man. I’ve spent my _entire life_ training to take down bigger threats than you. I throw my life on the line each and every night—believe me, you don’t have the mental fortitude to _stop me_. Either let go of this place peacefully or I’ll burn this whole place down myself and drag you into a prison.”

Clark chortled—so sudden that even he didn’t expect it. Bruce’s eyes just narrowed in response.

“ _Drag_ me?” Clark repeated. He clenched his jaw, his breath almost a hiss underneath his breath, “God, you’re so fucking arrogant.”

He struck a nerve.

The batarang cut through the air as it zipped past Clark. Clark easily dodged—but when his eyes followed the trail of the object, staring in confusion when he noticed a black box attached to one of the fortress walls. The batarang planted itself in—triggering a sound that pierced through the entire fortress.

Clark flinched as the noise stabbed through his ears—a noise that he could only describe as the skittering of an entire cloud of bats, raised to a screeching pitch, ripping through his heightened hearing. Clark opened an eye, his gaze happening to land on the ceiling, his body freezing when he noticed another box.

Before he could even respond, the other box responded to the noise of the other, detonating and doubling the sound. Another, from behind Clark. And then another, until the sound was so pervasive that Clark couldn’t even hear the source. The noise, all collected together, screaming through his ear drums until it all became one constant ring. The sound of it all rattling his head, destroying his sense of direction, an instant nausea boiling up through his chest.

He vaguely sensed himself falling to his knees, the impact of the hard ground nothing in comparison to the stabbing in his ears. He held his head, trying to hold himself together.

Eyes squeezed shut, he struggled to open them. Through the blurriness, the entire fortress seemed to totter back and forth, red and black pulsing through the images of blue. He caught Bruce calmly heading towards the exit, his camouflaged suit further sickening Clark. The entire room seeming to spin. Acid burning the back of his throat as his body threatened to vomit.

Finally, above, he caught that black shape. Clark didn’t think—his eyes burned as he shot heat vision at the object. The blast took out the object, numbing the sound only somewhat as the other boxes continued to call at each other. Along with the box, part of the fortress came crumbling down, falling before the exit and forcing Bruce to leap backwards.

Bruce turned his head back towards Clark and Clark couldn’t even muster the strength to glare back, eyes closing as the sound continued to pound away at his head. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself rising to his feet. Instead of Batman before him, he found Jor-El. Jor-El was speaking to him but Clark couldn’t read his words. Kyrptonian or English, the blues and whites of his image all mixed together, lips blurred. As his vision went in and out, Clark did catch a glimpse of concern in his father’s eyes—but the projection simply turned his head, quickly disappearing out of sight.

A thought managed to crawl into the back of Clark’s mind. He had to take out the other speakers. His heart was pulsing in tune with the waves of the sound, jumping like it would at the crack of thunder or a firework.

Clark struggled to stand up, everything swaying around him. In his peripherals, he caught Bruce standing close to him. Clark couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t understand what Bruce was doing as he finally pulled at that strap that was wrapped around his chest, a blur of an object landing at his boots.

As Clark spun around dizzily, he caught something in the air. Another speaker. He shot at it and missed—but the blast chipped at the wall and the speaker went flying downwards, crashing against the ground. The sound lessened. He looked for the other one, directly opposite of the exit. Shot at it, the ray chipping at the Lara’s hair before striking down the speaker.

He could feel himself growing impatient, trying to find the last one. He couldn’t hear the source, couldn’t hear much at all, nothing but everlasting ringing in his head. He could feel sweat on his hairline, impatience gnawing at him as he tried to find that last godforsaken box.

He found it. Shattered it.

But there was no time to be relieved.

He was suddenly yanked to the ground, as if two invisible hands had grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him down.

It was hard to feel anything, his sickness overwhelming any of his other senses. But he looked down at his biceps, just now seeing the metal discs that had planted themselves on his skin, like a row of buttons on each of his arm. It was familiar—he looked down, seeing what Batman had rigged while he was distracted. Metal plates all too familiar to what Bruce had installed in Gotham to take down Solomon Grundy, whose strength nearly matched Clark’s own.

The magnets dragged him to the ground, forcing him on his knees. Clark could see the blurry waves between the magnets, refracting in the air, pulling him down. Even so, he tried to rise, jaw clenching so hard it ached, every muscle contracting, the tendons in his neck and forearms squeezing as he tried to lift himself up off the ground—and failing.

When he fell back to his knees, he could heard the dull thud in the ground. However slowly, his hearing was coming back to normal. He looked straight ahead—found Batman struggling to cut through the crystal that led to the exit, when something suddenly came jutting out from the corner of Clark’s perspective.

Bruce’s head turned, sensing it at the same time. He rolled out of the way as the Eradicator attempted to leap onto of him. Eradicator turned swiftly, raising his arm to strike the grounded Batman, but Bruce shot his grappling hook into the nearest wall, retracting the line the drag himself along the ground. The Eradicator’s punch struck the floor instead, the impact pulsing throughout the fortress, a crack in the ground.

Clark’s eyes followed in disbelief as the Eradicator stalked towards Bruce. Bruce was back on his feet—and while Clark had seen Bruce on a battlefield many times, he didn’t realize how much he underestimated the man’s agility until that point. Bruce ducked and dodged around the Eradicator’s movements.

The sounds of their battle began to pound in his ear. The fog before Clark’s eyes began to clear, Batman coming into focus as he leaped out of the way of the Eradicator’s swings.

Clark’s vision glowed red with his heat vision, ready to strike as Bruce and the Eradicator swung blows.

He caught a glimpse of something. In the reflection of Bruce’s armor, Clark saw himself bolted to the ground, hair matted and face flushed from his strain. He focused on the image, fixated on the ominously glowing red eyes staring back at him.

Clark stopped.

Bruce misstepped, the Eradicator landing a strike, sending him skidding across the ground with a single hit. They were out of Clark’s line of vision, somewhere behind him. He looked up, found Jor-El behind him. He could hear him again, his voice murky, like listening underwater.

“Shut down the Eradicator,” Clark said quickly. He couldn’t quite make out Jor-El’s voice, just fragments of his speech.

At Clark’s command, Jor-El’s face fell.

“The Eradicator exists to preserve Kryptonian culture, Kal-El. If this man intends to destroy the fortress, he will destroy all that is left of Krypton. Neither I, nor the Eradicator, can allow that.”

“No,” Clark said, words rushed, panic settling in. “You have to deactivate him. The Eradicator doesn't just want to preserve Kryptonian culture, he wants to destroy anything _non_ -Kryptonian.”

“Do not worry, Kal-El. I will not allow the Eradicator to destroy your adopted planet. I only intend to stop the one who threatens to destroy this fortress—”

“You can't kill him!” Clark insisted. He struggled to stand up, breathing hard as the magnetic field pulled against him. He managed to get on his feet but his back was stooped low, the field ready to snatch him back in. He didn’t let it stop him.

He kept pulling himself off the ground.

“I don't mean to kill him. Only to stop him by whatever means necessary.” Jor-El’s gaze lowered. “I'm sorry, Kal-El. When your mother and I sent you to this planet, we only hoped for your survival. We never meant to abandon you. We never meant for you to be _alone_. We've already parted ways once—I promise you that I won't stand to allow that to happen again. I won't leave you again.”

Clark didn’t want that either.

He didn’t want it to have to be a choice.

If he could just get up, if he could just pull harder—then he could fix it. He could have Earth and Krypton together.

He could hear it. The sounds of the Eradicator behind him. His appearance might have assumed a Kryptonian’s, his chest even emblazoned with the house of El, but his internal workings had the sounds of something robotic. A pretender. Gritting his teeth, Clark forced himself to fly backwards.

There was a struggle at first, then faster-than-bullet speed as he pulled out of the magnetic field.

He collided with the Eradicator, both of them crashing into the closest surface. The collection of crystals, underneath the statue of Jor-El and Lara. Clark opened his eyes, feeling the ache in his shoulders and back from the crash. He blinked wearily at the ceiling, the statue in his sight.

A vision of a peaceful planet, held up by two hands.

He quickly turned back around to face the Eradicator, which was momentarily stunned as it laid on the bed of crystals, severe damage to its shell. Clark’s eyes searched the robot, scanning over it wildly, trying to find the source of its strength.

The Eradicator began to rise and Clark punched it back down. There was a loud _crack_ —not just from the Eradicator’s materials, Clark realized, only after he saw the veins running down the crystals.

In the corner of his eye, Clark could see blue flashes. The projections, Clark realized.

 _Kal-El. Last Son of Krypton. Born to Jor-El and Lara_ , Jor-El’s voice spoke. Clark’s heart raced faster, harkening back to that first day with the crystal. The voice and words so identical that it felt like a recording.

Because it was a recording. Because Jor-El’s memory may have been sentient—but the real person had died long ago, now only existing within the memory of this fortress.

_Of all the planets with yellow suns catalogued in your ship’s coordinates, you have appeared to have landed on the planet Earth._

The Eradicator grabbed at him. Clark punched again at the machine’s core, feeling the metal plates begin to buckle underneath his fists. The impact pushing him further into the crystals. One of white tops of the crystals cracked off, rolling off of the others and onto the ground.

_I-I-I have catalogued as many of the languages I c-could from each planet. These languages were studied from afar-afar-afar, c-compiled from research gathered of other o-outerworld species._

The metal plate split in half. The Eradicator shot off lasers from its eyes and Clark groaned, feeling the heat burning against his face, hotter than any oven or campfire. He shoved his hand through the Eradicator’s chest, using his other arm to bear his weight down on the machine to pin him in place.

Blue flashed throughout the entire room, Jor-El’s skipping voice growing fainter under the sounds of the crystals shattering.

_Kal-El—Last Son of Krypton—Of all the planets with yellow suns—_

Clark could feel the heated center of the Eradicator’s power source. Could grasp it, if only his fingers would stop slipping. His eyes squeezed shut as the Eradicator continued to blast him with heat, the burn beginning to set on his skin.

_Kal-El—Last Son of Krypton—_

His hand wrapped around the core. Couldn’t crush it in his hand alone. Clark held it tight, lifting the Eradicator up and slamming him back down.

 _Last Son of Krypton_ —

The rays stopped. Clark looked, saw the flickering yellow visor placed where its eyes would have been if it was living. Clark held on.

_Last—_

Clark slammed the Eradicator down one last time, a loud crack echoing throughout the fortress. The Eradicator’s body fell slack all at once, all light in the room shutting off, the heat dissolving from Clark’s hand. The room silencing.

The Eradicator didn’t move.

Clark stayed there for a moment, his arm still buried, trying to catch his breath. He felt the air push in and out of him, his body rising and falling, eyes falling shut with exhaustion.

Everything turning dark, unable to focus on anything else, it seemed to Clark that his was the only breath in the room.

 

“Look alive, Smallville.”

Clark looked up, not realizing he had zoned out. He just now noticed that the elevator had dinged open—body memory taking over, he shuffled in alongside Lois. He could feel Lois’ eyes watching him. He felt nervous, wondering what embarrassing thing he had done this time. He was about to check his shirt for a stain when Lois suddenly placed her hand on his arm.

He turned his head, was taken aback by the concern in her eyes—an almost vulnerability to them that she usually only expressed during an interview.

“Hey…” she said. “Are you okay?”

The elevator made a low humming sound, smoothly gliding them to their floor.

Instinctively, the words almost practiced, he said, “I’m okay. Head in the clouds, I guess.”

She removed the hand, wrapping it back around her purse strap instead. The elevator chimed with every floor. Clark, so used to his daily routine, had the number of elevator chimes memorized. He imagined Lois did too.

As it neared their floor, she suddenly said, “If you need someone to talk to, you can always come to me.”

Before Clark could respond, the doors slid open, the sounds of the office seeming to erupt at once. Clark followed Lois in the direction of their cubicles. Someone came running around the corner with a big stack of folders in their arms, bumping shoulders with Clark.

“Sorry, Clark, didn’t see you there,” his coworker apologized, continuing to take off.

“Lois?”

Clark stopped, nearly crashing into Lois. Ron was standing outside of her cube. Lois regarded him with surprise—and Clark was surprised too. Ron usually kept to himself.

“I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed yesterday’s article. One of your best. Really,” he said to her.

“Oh,” Lois said, blinking. “Thank you, Ron.”

“I agree,” said another voice. They looked, saw Cat popping her head up above the cubicle divider. “Good work, Lois.”

“Thank you, Cat,” Lois said, and Clark could catch the flush on her ears. She acted calmly and professionally—but these compliments were truly affecting her. She took her seat.

Clark, who had not been keeping up with the news—both for intentional and unintentional reasons—found himself curious. The Daily Planet always kept copies of their recents printings at the table near the watercooler. Finding one from the previous day, Clark took it with him to his desk.

He looked at the faces in the photo, instantly recognizing a few of them.

The Markovian schoolchildren.

He could hear Ron talking to Lois still.

“It was an important story to cover,” Lois said. “They never got a chance to tell their side of the tale. Hearing their story—well, you can start to realize why Superman went there in the first place.”

Clark took the time to read it. He never had the chance to learn about the people he helped—he didn’t need to know, at the time. The only thing he had focused on was the atrocity of the situation. As he was lost in their stories, described with great care and empathy, Clark wasn’t sure if he wanted to congratulate Lois—or thank her.

 

Clark could hear him—which meant he wasn’t working very hard on hiding himself. Still, Bruce had followed him across several rooftops, and he had yet to say anything or make his move.

Finally, Clark sighed.

“You can never just break the silence, can you?”

Clark was floating above the rooftops of Metropolis, waiting to respond to any citizen who needed assistance. The sun was beginning to set over the city—meaning that Bruce should have been in Gotham.

“I knew you could hear me. It was a matter of whether you _wanted_ to talk to me,” Bruce murmured, his voice still audible from where Clark was positioned.

Clark paused, several mixed feelings clouding his head. His upbringing, based on  acceptance and forgiveness, told him that he should let go of their squabble.

On the other hand, he was also really pissed off.

“You invaded my property, attacked me, and destroyed the only link I had to my heritage—who was also, in a way, all that remained of my biological father.”

“I know,” Bruce said, and that admittance made Clark stop and listen. “I’m not going to ask for forgiveness. But I wanted to talk to you about something I discovered—it’d be easier to explain at my lab, in my safehouse.”

Clark turned around, cape billowing around him. “Whatever you have to tell me, you can tell me here, where I’m certain you won’t try to attack me.”

“This safehouse… isn’t like the one you’ve seen. It’s a lot like your fortress, in ways. I haven’t shown it to anyone in the League—but I want to introduce it to you.”

There was the slightest hint of emotion in Bruce’s voice. A semblance of humility. He claimed that he wasn’t asking for forgiveness—but Clark could hear in his voice that he sought after it anyways. He wouldn’t be there, in that city, an hour before sundown if it wasn’t serious. And as angry as Clark was, he knew that a large part of that anger was directed at Bruce’s betrayal.

It wasn’t as if Clark was actually naive enough to believe that Bruce fully trusted him. But after everything that happened between working together in Markovia, Bruce revealing his secret safehouse in Metropolis, and his admittance of wrongdoing at the Hall of Justice—Clark had believed things were going in the right direction. That they could work together as a team.

He was surprised by how much it upset him that Bruce had ripped away that progress.

Clark looked up at Bruce, who was crouched on a ledge. Still not quite coming into the light.

“Why did you do it?” Clark had to ask. Bruce hesitated to answer and in that brief moment, Clark turned his head. Ready to fly off.

“I didn’t trust you from the first moment I met you,” Bruce said, which stopped Clark from leaving, but did nothing to quell his mixed emotions. “I don’t trust a lot of people—but you, specifically, because of the power you had…” Bruce cut himself off, his voice reclaiming his usual blunt tone. “I was cautious. I kept waiting for you to slip up. Anything to prove that I was right not to trust you. When I found that fortress in the arctic and saw everything inside, I thought that I had found what I was looking for. That my suspicions had finally been validated.”

“And were you right?” Clark challenged. He knew the answer—Bruce wouldn’t be in his city if the answer was otherwise—but Clark wanted to hear Bruce say it.

“No,” Bruce said at once. He hopped down from the ledge onto the rooftop and Clark eyed him carefully as he approached. “In the end, I just realized how wrong I was.” Brow furrowing, he confessed, “Over and over again, you kept proving me wrong.”

Well, Clark felt a little satisfied.

“When I reacted violently, I didn’t act out of fear. I never really thought you were dangerous.”

At that, Clark paused, pondering over Bruce’s words. A lot of people thought he was dangerous, Bruce wouldn’t have been the first.

“Then why’d you do it?” Clark asked.

“I was angry because I discovered too much. The reason I followed you to that fortress wasn’t because I thought you were up to no good.”

“Then why follow me in the first place?”

“I was curious.”

“Curious,” Clark repeated bluntly, face falling. Bruce shifted his weight to his other leg, the slightest frown turning at the corner of his mouth.

“The others I understand. Green Lantern is military. Flash is a scientist, a cop. Martian Manhunter is a survivor. Aquaman is a king. But you and Wonder Woman… there’s a mystery to you two. You’re both generous and brave, but you don’t talk about your past. And what I do know of your past, I can’t grasp.”

Clark finally was beginning to understand what Bruce was talking about.

He had the same thoughts about him.

“When I needed to contact you about Markovia, I couldn’t find you at your apartment or at your parents’ home. You were going somewhere. Somewhere alone. When I followed you to that fortress, it wasn’t for the intention of hunting you down. I just wanted to know why you were sheltering yourself away from your family, your team, the world. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find—but I realized, as soon as I stepped inside that place, that I had found something private. All of your secrets. And the thought of you explaining it to me, opening up, made me realize that I had stepped too far.” Bruce suddenly stopped for a moment. He said instead, “I have some information on your fortress. I want to share it with you at my safehouse.”

“You may trust me now. But I can’t trust you,” Clark said firmly.

“I know,” Bruce said shortly. “I’m hoping this might change your mind.”

Clark had a bad feeling about all of this. He wasn’t sure if his mind would be changed—a bitter part of him wasn’t even sure if he _wanted_ to change his mind—and he knew very well that he could have been walking into one of Batman’s traps.

Maybe it was the honesty he heard in Bruce’s steady heartbeat, or maybe Clark was just a bit curious too.

Batman could still attack him—but ultimately Clark followed because he trusted that Bruce wouldn’t.

 

Clark didn’t understand where Bruce was leading him when the batwing headed toward the cliff faces past Gotham Bay. The more the batwing ducked closer to the water, the more apprehensive Clark became. When Clark used his x-ray vision, he finally noticed a hollow cavern in the cliff face.

Clark followed closely as the batwing disappeared into the cavern. It was near pitch black—and if the batwing’s lights didn’t turn on, Clark might have flown right into a wall.

He could smell water. Could hear it running, fast and heavy, in the distance. He could also hear the chittering of bats, leading his gaze upward. In the darkness, he saw what had to be hundreds of brown bats, crawling and zipping around.

Okay. Maybe there actually was a reason behind the whole bat gimmick.

The cave opened up and that’s when Clark finally slowed, coming to a stop midlight.

He lingered in the open space of the cavern as the batwing moved onward, a waterfall in his peripherals. Gaze following the batwing as it landed on a steel platform, he saw lights everywhere and intricate metal pathways contrasting against the natural, rocky walls and flowing water. In the distance he could hear the low hum of a generator.

It wasn’t a fortress in the ice. But it was still impressive in its own right.

Strangest of all was the English accent that suddenly spoke up.

“Welcome home, Master Bruce.”

Clark stopped, thinking that it had to have been a computer recording.

But no, there was definitely another heartbeat in this place.

Clark slowly lifted himself to the platform, eyeing the person talking to Bruce. Definitely real. Standing with Bruce was an old man in a black and white suit. He immediately noticed Superman and didn’t seem at all surprised by his appearance, meaning he was definitely informed that Clark would be visiting.

Clark stared in shock when Bruce suddenly pulled off his cowl, confirming that Clark had heard the man’s words correctly.

“You have a butler,” Clark said, dumbfounded. “And he knows your secret identity.”

“He is my butler but he’s also family.”

“Alfred Pennyworth at your service, Master… Superman.”

“Clark,” Clark said, still dazed. He didn't understand what was going on—but he figured if Bruce, the most paranoid person Clark had ever met, could trust this man… then it might be okay for Clark to do the same. “Clark Kent.”

“Ah, very well, Master Clark.”

“No, it’s just…” Clark trailed off, noticing Alfred’s watchful gaze. Clark breathed. “Okay.”

“Where’s Dick?” Bruce said, starting to make his way down the ramp. Alfred followed closely, Clark trailing behind as his eyes wandered.

“Hiding,” Pennyworth answered simply.

Bruce stopped fixing his cowl hair, giving Alfred an odd look. “ _Why_?”

“Nerves, perhaps?” Alfred said, glancing back at Clark. Clark blinked.

“Really?” Bruce said, his voice sounding… amused?

Clark was so confused.

“I once was in the same pub as Alec Guinness. He happened to look in my direction and I dropped a full pint into my lap. Being a little starstruck can make you do uncharacteristic things.”

Bruce accepted the answer, climbing up the stairs leading into the heart of the cave. Clark did his best to follow but there was so much to look at. Cases upon cases of different weaponry and gadgets. On the level below, the batmobile and a series of other vehicles were parked. Divided areas that appeared to be labs, workshops, and clinics. In the distance, a massive computer—even larger than what was installed in the Hall of Justice.

There wasn't a Kryptonian statue, but there was a giant dinosaur.

“This is all yours,” Clark said, and it wasn’t a question.

“It didn’t happen overnight,” Bruce said simply, taking the steps toward the computer.

Clark grabbed a nearby railing and paused, hearing something. His eyes travelled upwards, to where the lights hung. He saw a small shape balancing on the steel beams, flitting into the shadows after Clark had spotted him.

Bruce noticed he had stopped. His eyes followed Clark’s gaze.

“We can hear you,” Bruce called out. More impatiently, he said, “Get down from there.”

A pause. But then a shift in the shadows. Their stalker hopped down from the light fixture onto a high shelf. Closer to the light, Clark was taken aback by the child’s face that looked back at him. The tiny heart was beating rapidly but the boy didn’t seem afraid—just nervous, his curious blue eyes watching Clark closely.

“Is he…” Clark started but then he thought it over. The raven hair and light eyes threw him off—but the dark complexion and facial features were far too different, and the age difference made it all the more implausible, unless Bruce Wayne’s alleged reputation extended into his early teen years.

“Adopted,” Bruce said. “Dick, come say hello.”

“Hi,” the boy said, volume echoing off the cave walls, and his mouth immediately clamped shut, as if he had underestimated his own voice. He didn’t move from his spot.

“Hi,” Clark said, waving. The boy’s eyes went big.

Bruce finally took Clark to the computer, pulling up a diagram. Clark recognized the image and immediately crossed his arms.

“You took a piece of my fortress,” Clark said, not even bothering to disguise his irritation.

“Yes. I ran some scans on it—”

“Without my permission,” Clark said, rubbing his eyes. For a moment, he was so caught up in the wonders of the cave that he forgot who he was dealing with.

“The material isn’t anything that can be found on Earth—but there are some similarities.” Bruce zoomed in on a picture. “The outwards appearance, from our earth understanding, fools us into thinking it’s some type of crystal. But in actuality its structure is capable of things that crystals cannot do, such as the ability to control its accelerated growth.”

“Control it? So it's sentient?” Clark repeated. “That is interesting but why are you telling me this?”

“Because this material can regenerate. On top of that, it seems to retain memory. In my tests, I tried burning it, which damaged it. After it regenerated, I tried burning it again—and the material, upon sensing heat, protected itself from the flames. I think this type of memory storage is how you were able to speak to your father—he stored his memories inside the fortress, using the crystals as some type of harddrive. And since the crystals can regenerate while still retaining its memory—”

“Give it time and it'll heal,” Clark finished for him. He slowly shook his head, eyes still fixated on the display. “This is a strange way of dodging the damage you did.”

Bruce didn’t deny it. He clicked a few buttons, pulling up another diagram. Clark tilted his head, studying the blueprints of a strange, mirror-like object. “The crystals’ healing abilities seem to accelerate under natural sunlight—the same way you recharge your own strength. I designed this panel that will help better bring sunlight into the fortress, even in the arctic environment. You can control the settings and use it to repair the fortress and also heal yourself, if the need arises. It’ll make your fortress not only stronger, but a better safehaven.”

“And you suppose this makes us even?” Clark challenged.

“I prefer this method over breaking _my_ computer out of revenge, yes.”

Clark suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve. Clark glanced down, saw Dick standing there.

“Can you really fly?” he asked shyly. Turning all attention on the boy, Clark gave a friendly smile.

“Yes, I can.”

Dick’s eyes searched his. A little more boldly, he said, “Can I show you the cave?”

“Sure.”

“Clark—”Bruce started.

“It’s fine, Bruce. We’re even,” Clark said, and he let Dick lead him away.

Tugging on his elbow the entire time, Dick rapidly fired off all the terminology for different parts of the cave, finally pulling him toward what Clark could only describe as an armory—a series of batsuits locked up behind glass. Clark focused on a familiar gray suit.

“That’s the Polarbat, that’s the Hazbat, that’s the Spacebat, that’s the Scubabat—”

“Scubabat?”

“Yeah, because it goes underwater. I named all of them,” Dick said proudly.

Clark’s eyes flickered in the direction of the Hazbat suit.

In more ways than one, it all started to puzzle together.

 

“Do you think it’ll look bad, having a satellite? Do you suppose people will think that we’re… I don’t know… watching over them? Like we feel like we’re above them?” Hal said, pondering out loud.

“I think it’d be best to have a headquarters that isn’t positioned in any particular country, to prove that we strive for the best of an entire planet, rather than implying that we have any allegiance to one particular place,” J’onn said. And he hurried to give Arthur instructions on where to piece together some of the panels.

“I’ve never been to space,” Diana said as she helped Clark move some heavy machinery. J’onn had built their new headquarters in a space satellite, meaning everything had to be moved from the Hall of Justice. Clark underestimated how full the Hall had gotten in the past few months.

“I’ve been there a few times, on missions,” Clark said.

They dropped off the items where the spaceship was docked. Bruce was there, keeping track of inventory. He marked down the items.

“Hey, could one of you carry that into the ship?” Barry said, suddenly appearing. He didn't bother waiting for an answer, saying his thanks and running off.

Clark volunteered while Diana went to grab more stuff from the Hall.

Clark lifted up the heavy steel crate, which was about the size of a truck. Bruce followed him, which Clark thought nothing of—until Bruce suddenly said:

“I’m going to your parents’ house on Sunday. What should I bring?”

“ _What_?” Clark said, alarmed. He spun around to face him. Bruce quickly ducked to the ground so the crate wouldn't cleave off his head. Clark ignored Bruce’s glare. “Why are you going to my parents’ house?”

“When you first disappeared, you told me you went to Smallville and had bad cell phone signal. So when I went looking for you again, I had to stop at your parents’ house. Without it being said, I figured it out to be a lie when I visited their farm to find out that you weren't there. Your parents invited me to visit again and I agreed.”

“That doesn’t really explain _why_ ,” Clark said, grumbling. He carried the crate up the ramp, getting angrier the more he thought about it. “How come I’m just hearing about this _now_?”

“You weren’t invited,” Bruce said simply. Clark looked at him, annoyed, but Bruce just asked, “Should I bring a dessert?”

“Ma already makes the best dessert.”

“Wine?”

“Pa doesn’t drink.”

“Does he smoke?”

“No and you’re not gifting my elderly parents _cigars_ anyways.”

“A ceramic hen.”

Clark blinked in surprise. “How do you know Ma collects those?”

“I guessed.” Bruce pressed a button on the side of his cowl. “Cave, remind me to shop for a ceramic chicken before Sunday.”

“Hi Alfred,” Clark said, raising his voice, earning a sharp look from Bruce.

“Why are you doing this? Won’t you be doing Batman things?”

“It’s just for dinner,” Bruce said. “The flight time between Gotham and my safehouse in Keystone is only about seventy-five minutes on the batwing. And Robin wanted to go on a trip.”

“Robin?” Clark said, and then the realization sunk in. “Oh, Robin, that’s what you call him? That’s cute.”

Clark didn’t understand why Bruce looked at him like he was the one being offensive.

 

Clark could see from afar that the Langs’ shed was occupied. Clark popped his head in, watching Lana use her phone as a flashlight, searching for something.

“Need help?” he asked.

“ _Jesus_!” she cursed, jumping in place. The flashlight shone in Clark’s eyes. “Criminy, Clark. Don't do that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “What are you doing out here?”

“I'm about to have dinner with my folks. I wanted to invite you.” Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “I… guess they invited Bruce Wayne too.”

“Having dinner with billionaires? Look at you, Mr. Cityslicker,” Lana said, her tone light. “Well, as much as I hate to turn down _Bruce Wayne_ —if I'm going to deal with any loose screws tonight, it's going to be the ones on our kitchen door.”

Clark looked around the shed with his x-ray vision. “Your toolbox is behind that box on the top shelf.”

“Help a girl out?”

Clark rose himself in the air, easily plucking the box off the top shelf, and handed it to Lana.

“You won’t believe who I ran into a few weeks ago,” Clark said as he handed over the box. When Lana’s gaze lingered, he smiled and said, “Lex.”

“Oh right,” Lana said, face thoughtful. “He’s a big hotshot now, isn’t he? Up in Metropolis.”

“A real big hotshot. He said he didn’t recognize me but…” Clark shook his head. “I know it’s not polite to check if people are lying, but I could hear his heartbeat.”

Lana elbowed him a little bit. Clark looked at her, caught her sly smile. “In all fairness... it’s not polite to lie.”

Clark smiled a little. “I mean, I figured he didn’t care for us much but… it just felt odd. Like he was embarrassed of even _knowing_ there was a place called Smallville.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t have a lot of friends here. He always thought he was too good for this place. It made him an outcast.” Lana tilted her head back and forth. “We tried to be nice to him. Make him a part of our gang. But some people just don’t like other people.” Lana rested the toolbox against her hip. “I wonder how his sister is doing. I hope he still takes care of her.”

“I didn't get a chance to ask.”

“Well, thanks for the help,” Lana said. “Maybe I'll do dinner with the Kents another time. We could invite Pete too.”

Clark slowly nodded, his heart feeling light at the thought. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

Clark crossed the fields to his parents’ yard. He saw the vintage, black car parked out in front. Somehow, Bruce had made it there before him.

He knocked on the door. Ma answered.

“Oh, Clark!” she said, sounding surprised.

“Hi, Ma. Dinner smells good.”

She looked suddenly confused.

“Did we invite you?” she said.

Clark’s face fell.

“Well no matter, there should be enough for all of us. Come in,” she said without skipping a beat, pulling him into the house. To his left, Clark could see the kitchen. Bruce was without his blazer this time, but his button-up still seemed a little pristine for a visit to the country, even if it was rolled up to his elbows. His back was turned to Clark, distracted by Ma’s chicken collection that lined around the tops of the cabinets, and Clark took that as an opportunity to duck into the living room on his right.

Pa was near the cluttered shelf in the corner, going through some boxes.

“Hey, Pa. What are you doing?”

“Your Ma wanted to show Mr. Wayne the family album with all your baby pictures but I can’t seem to find it.”

Clark glanced down, noticing a box with a green photo album sitting on the floor. Clark discreetly pushed it with his foot, sliding it underneath a curtained table.

“Pa, can I talk to you?” Clark said. Jon looked up from his digging, saw the serious look on Clark’s face and stopped.

“Well, alright then,” Jon said softly, freeing his hands from the box that he was elbows deep in. “What’s the matter, Clark?”

Bruce already knew Clark’s secrets but Pa and Ma didn’t know his. So Clark kept his voice low, pretending to be discrete. “I’ve been meaning to give you and Ma some news. Remember a few months back, when I asked to take the spaceship from the barn?”

Pa listened quietly as Clark began to recount the tale of uncovering the fortress and meeting Jor-El. Clark told him about his origins and Krypton, but before Clark could get into everything, Pa placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“Clark, I think this is a conversation we should have with Ma.”

Clark paused before finally nodding. “You're right, I was just in a hurry to get it off my chest. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier. I _wanted_ to but with everything going on—”

“Clark, it’s not selfish to focus on yourself every now and then. It’s not,” Jon said insistently. Clark pondered over those words. Jon just patted Clark’s arm reassuringly and added, “Let’s just enjoy dinner together, alright?”

As if on cue, Ma announced that everything was ready.

Bruce didn’t stay long after dessert. Clark walked him to the door but before Clark could say his salutations, Bruce suddenly spoke in a low voice, returning to his usual seriousness, “I need to get into the barn.”

“...why?” Clark asked slowly, though he knew that Bruce would fight until he got his way anyways.

“Do you have keys?” Bruce said, ignoring the question.

Clark sighed, glancing back at his parents who were cleaning up the table, and grabbed his keys. They headed outside, the screen door rattling as it closed.

They made their way to the barn, the moon and stars guiding the way. Clark glanced up at the starry sky.

“I miss that. You don’t get this in Metropolis,” Clark said. Bruce took the time to look up and see what Clark was talking about.

“You don’t get it in Gotham either,” Bruce said. Back to the situation at hand, Bruce said, “Your father mentioned his tractor was broken the last time I was here.”

“Wait, so that’s why you agreed to come back?”

“It was the least I could do for all the trouble I caused them.”

“How am I going to explain to them that you can fix a _tractor_ but you can’t fix a belt on your car?”

“It’s simple—you _don’t_ explain it.”

Clark unlocked the padlock, opening up the barn. Bruce used his phone to flash a light through the entryway.

“Not the fanciest of barns, I know,” Clark said.

“I’ve been in worse places.”

“Like what?” Clark found himself asking. When Bruce glanced at him, Clark felt strangely flustered, like it was inappropriate to ask. “Sorry. Just curious.”

“The middle of a desert, for one,” Bruce admitted after a moment.

“Why were you there?” Clark dared to ask.

Bruce paused before answering. “To learn martial arts from a man who’s over seven hundred years old.”

It was the craziest thing Clark had ever heard come out of Bruce’s mouth—and yet, that was precisely the reason why Clark believed him.

“You've led a fairly interesting life, haven’t you?” Clark said. They walked inside the barn, door cracking shut behind them. Bruce’s light moved around, observing the interior.

“And you’ve led a rather ordinary one,” Bruce said in return.

Clark was in charge of holding Bruce’s phone while he tinkered around with the tractor. Quite some time passed before Bruce’s phone finally beeped, announcing its death. But Bruce, ever reliable, finished on time.

“Satisfied?” Clark asked, handing back the phone. “Will you promise not to bug my parents again?”

“They seem to like me.”

“They’re polite, old folks. They like everyone,” Clark said, feeling defensive.

“They _invited_ me,” Bruce insisted. Clark rolled his eyes. They started to head toward the exit. It was difficult navigating through the pitch darkness but Clark could see well enough to dodge any harmful intrusions, and Bruce was used to walking around at night.

Clark stopped on the way. He had spotted the wagon when he walked in—had reminisced about it while Bruce worked. Trapped inside the barn were lots of memories—from helping Pa with the farm to sleepovers with his friends to this very wagon.

Clark stopped at it, hand resting on the railing.

“What is it?” Bruce asked.

“It's a wagon.”

“I see that,” Bruce said, voice almost short. “I meant, what is its significance?”

“Nothing, it's just… my friends and I, we used to take it to the top of the hill down the road, and ride it. It was a summer tradition.”

Clark was filled with bittersweet nostalgia, thinking of simpler times.

“Do you ever wish you could go back to the way things used to be, when you were just a kid?” Clark pondered out loud.

Bruce didn't say anything.

Feeling almost determined, Clark climbed up into the wagon, the planks creaking underneath him. He looked back at Bruce, who had been watching almost cautiously.

“Come on,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said with zero hesitation.

Clark walked further along the wagon, taking a seat, his back resting against the side railing. He looked at Bruce expectantly.

“Is this some sort of test?” Bruce said curtly.

“Sure, a test of friendship,” Clark said lightly.

Bruce didn’t seem to like that answer. Still, clenching his jaw, Bruce climbed up, taking a seat opposite to Clark. Clark could hear him shift around, trying to get comfortable. The thin cloth that covered the planks didn’t do much to soften the wood’s harsh material.

“How many friends would you take on this thing?”

“Just two others.”

“It's cramped,” Bruce said. In the process of readjusting his seating, their knees bumped.

“It was in this wagon where I first discovered my heightened hearing.”

“What do you hear now?” Bruce asked after a moment.

Clark paused, closing his eyes. Concentrating.

“I hear the barn. The wind blowing between the cracks in the wood. Ma and Pa washing the dishes. The cornfield’s really noisy—you can hear all of the stalks swaying.”

“Tell me something I wouldn't be able to hear.”

At that, the corner of Clark’s mouth tugged into an unexpected smile. But he kept his eyes closed, listening harder.

“There's an owl a couple acres from here. It just landed on a tree. I can hear its talons scratching against the bark. There are a lot of trees clustered together—I can hear the leaves moving. And…” Clark trailed off, brow furrowing, trying to discern the noise. “Moths? A few of them. You can hear their wings beating. Around… a lantern. You can hear the buzz from the electricity.”

“Do you hear anything else?”

Bruce’s voice was low—but Clark could hear it so clearly.

It brought Clark’s attention back. Retracting from the lantern with the moths to the owl in the tree to the cornstalks to Ma and Pa laughing to the sighs of the barn to the wagon.

Clark stopped, breath stilling as he listened to what was closest around him.

 _Ba-dum. Ba-dum_.

Clark slowly opened his eyes. In the darkness, Clark saw Bruce’s shadow looming over him. He was so close his steady breath fanned on Clark’s skin.

Clark could feel it in his ears. His own heart.

 _Ba-dum_. _Ba-dum_.

Clark swallowed. Nerves dancing in his stomach. Fingers slowly wrapping around the railing.

“Bruce,” he said, unsure of what to say.

Bruce leaned in. The moonlight streamed in from the cracks of the barn, the light striping Bruce’s face, a clear blue eye coming into focus. Looking into him intensely.

Until everything was dark again. Faces drawn in close, lips finding the corner of Clark’s mouth. Then pressing against him fully.

Clark didn't breathe for a moment. An exhale shuddered past his lips only after Bruce parted from him. Clark heard a subtle creak from the wagon as Bruce leaned back, shifting his weight.

Clark grabbed at him, fingers grasping at his shirt. Preventing him from leaving. Clark’s hand travelled upward, feeling the smooth material of Bruce’s button-up. He leaned in and Bruce closed the rest of the distance. Kissing him again. Harder this time. Everything escalating from there. Their kiss, more heated now, lips moving faster. Clark’s glasses clumsily bumped up between them, so Clark yanked them off, setting them aside.

Rough, callused hands held Clark’s face. Pulling him in again, kiss deeper now. Bruce’s lips and tongue were warm, wet. A thumb brushed against Clark’s ear, fingers tangled in his hair. And it was getting harder to remember how to breathe as Bruce kept pulling him in, kept demanding his attention.

Bodies pushed in together. Clark could hear their hearts thundering, swore he could _feel_ each beat when their chests pressed against each other. Clark’s hand was trapped between them, fingers resting against the buttons where he finally questioned himself. Finally regained a sense of reality and wondered how far this was going and if he could dare to unbutton.

Bruce answered for him. He unbuttoned the collar and the heat rose in Clark’s face, ears burning by the time half of the buttons come undone.

Clark’s mouth felt dry and he finally asked, “Why?”

It slowed them down. The shadows were too dark to quite read Bruce’s expression. Bruce’s heartrate filled the silence, seeming almost erratic in comparison to ts usual steady beat—and it made Clark strangely relieved, thinking that maybe Bruce was unsure too. Clark felt Bruce’s hand on him, the t-shirt caught in the man’s fist.

“I don’t know what this is,” Bruce said, voice almost a whisper. Sounding almost lost. He gripped harder, Clark feeling the tug on the fabric. More firmly, Bruce answered, “But we’re not friends.”

Clark wasn’t expecting Bruce to lean back, tugging Clark on top of him. Clark’s face burned, sensing their position. _Felt_ their hips align.

Bruce’s hands slipped underneath his shirt and Clark clenched his jaw, his body responding to the touch. Goosebumps rising on his arms as Bruce’s hands touched him in the darkness. Clark couldn't predict where Bruce’s hands would go, feeling them caress his abdomen, his ribcage, his chest.

“Are you sure?” Clark asked. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice. It was like Bruce had stolen the breath from his body.

“Come on,” Bruce said, the slightest growl to his voice. Urging Clark’s shirt off. “Before I change my mind.”

Rather, before Bruce’s pride took precedence over his want. Clark obeyed, swiftly pulling off his shirt. Let Bruce yank him in, kissing him all over again, fast and hard.

Clark touched Bruce’s torso, his desire stomping out his usual shyness. Nothing about Bruce was soft. He was all hardened muscle, his skin raised with scars and bullet marks. And even now, in the midst of passion, where most people would be at their most vulnerable, there was something intimidating in the way Bruce’s hands dug into Clark’s body, or the way his teeth grazed against Clark’s lower lip. And Clark knew he had nothing to fear, confident that Bruce didn’t want to hurt him, but his breath was shaky and his heart was racing. Because with Bruce, everything was a thin line, and Clark had a tendency to make mistakes and he couldn't help but anticipate the moment where he inevitably fucked everything up. Kept anticipating the moment where Bruce would withdraw into himself again and wouldn’t bother to give Clark a second chance.

There was a distinct sound of metal teeth unzipping that cut through the air. Clark straightened his back, giving Bruce room to fish out his erection. Clark did the same, large fingers fumbling on the brass button of his denim, and Bruce’s hands were on him so swiftly, undoing the zipper. Bruce’s rough palm grabbed at Clark through the fabric, a shiver running through Clark’s body at the sensation, eyes falling shut as the hand ran down the entire length.

Clark’s hands ran over the opening of Bruce’s shirt. Felt the hot skin. The well formed muscles that he had worked for, bled for. Kissed him once more before covering Bruce’s body completely with his own, the wagon creaking underneath them, arms wrapped around Bruce. Their heated bodies embraced, Bruce’s legs spread on either side of him, hips aligned and erections pressed hard against each other, trapped between their bodies.

Their breaths were growing short. Clark rolled his hips, seeking friction against his erection. The heat of Bruce’s cock pressed against him felt electrifying. Bruce’s nails dug into his back, holding on to better guide his movements as his hips bucked up against Clark’s. The dark timbre of his voice seemed loud in Clark’s ear, his breath hot as it fanned against Clark’s skin.

“Bruce,” Clark sighed. He could feel the heat between their bodies. Could feel Bruce holding him so tight. Their heartbeats drummed together, filling Clark’s ears, adrenaline rushing through him. “You won’t leave me.”

It wasn’t a question or a request. But Bruce answered, his voice sharp despite his increasingly shorter breaths, “What the hell more do you want from me?”

Despite himself, a short, mirthful breath escaped Clark, but it was cut short. Bruce suddenly groaned deeply in Clark’s ear, invoking a response in Clark, his eyes falling shut, his head all hazy on account of one sexually aggressive sound. Clark sought after it again, grinding their cocks together, movements harder. Faster. Almost desperate.

Bruce laid flat on his back on the hard planks, trying to relieve the pressure against his cock, to slow down, but Clark’s weight had him pinned. Bruce’s voice became less aggressive, melting into something more lustful. Sighs elongating. Every inhale sharp. Clark could feel Bruce’s grip on him loosening, hand falling against the surface. Clark could hear Bruce’s nails raking against the cloth cover, his hand struggling for purchase.

Clark’s voice matched Bruce’s own, but it whispered and shuddered, more subtle than Bruce’s heated voice. It was getting harder to control the rhythm of their thrusts. The friction beginning to feel raw. Clark was close but he was not quite there.

He straightened his back, the air feeling almost cool without Bruce’s heat pressed against him. Bruce's heart skipped but he didn't protest as Clark hooked his fingers through the waistbands of Bruce’s clothes, yanking them down to his knees. The wooden planks were hard on Clark’s knees but the ache meant nothing to him.

He turned Bruce onto his side, a hand pushed down on the scarred knee, pinning his legs together. Clark wet his hand, stroking himself before pushing between Bruce’s squeezed thighs. Bruce groaned, the sound almost a hiss between his clenched teeth.

The pleasure coursed through Clark’s body as he fucked Bruce’s thighs, his cock brushing up against the underside of Bruce’s erection. Bruce turned his upper half toward the surface, hand wrenching into the cloth cover as Clark thrusted harder, faster. Clark yanked back on Bruce’s shirt, revealing the moonlit skin of his nape and upper back. Clark leaned over him, sucking on the back of his neck, the position angling him better, their erections flushed together.

Clark closed his eyes, groaning. Feeling their bodies work together in tandem, feeling that much closer to ecstasy, to bliss. Until somewhere, in the darkness, he heard matched sighs.

 

A breeze brushed through the grass. The gust rustled the leaves of the tree in the backyard. The old tire swing, dangling on its weathered rope, lightly beat against the trunk. The house had come to a near still, the television flickering while Pa snored from his spot on the recliner. And the cornstalks kept swaying, their leaves singing together.

All of it was drowned out under the heartbeat near him.

“Clark.”

“Hm?” Clark said, snapping out of his concentration. He looked up at Bruce, who finished buttoning his shirt. In the dim light, he could see Bruce watching him carefully. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”

“Heard what?”

Clark paused, feeling heat on his face. He settled on answering, “Everything, I suppose.”

Bruce looked at him for a moment but did not question it. They both slid off the wagon, heading back toward the house. Bruce didn’t say anything—but he kept at the same pace as Clark. Silent, but not distant.

Clark supposed he could have told Bruce the truth.

But this one, he decided, he could keep to himself.

 

“Are you almost done?” Clark said, frowning.

“These screws have to be installed perfectly—otherwise you’ll have a half-ton panel falling from your ceiling, and all of my money and time will have been wasted for nothing.”

“Right, money. Can’t waste that,” Clark said lightly.

Bruce stopped, blue eyes looking at him sharply.

Clark smiled apologetically.

With more than a little bite to his voice, Bruce asked, “Is there something about holding the panel up that’s too complicated for you?”

“It’s not heavy, it’s just… uncomfortable,” Clark said, grimacing.

“ _Hh_.” Bruce went back to work.

They were in the fortress, with Clark propping up the panel to the highest part of the ceiling, Bruce suspended from a system he had rigged together so he could install the device. Bruce’s cape and cowl was neatly folded on the ground, so it wouldn’t get in the way of the harness he had strapped himself to, giving him full movement.

They were at this much longer than Clark had anticipated. The panel wasn’t heavy for Clark—but there was no proper way to hold it up. His arms were numb from propping it up for so long.

“I recall you insisting that this was the best place to put it,” Bruce said, continuing to drill him. His scolding didn’t distract him from his work, at least, but Clark still didn’t want to listen to it.

Ears hot, Clark muttered, “Okay, okay, I’m done complaining.”

It had been Clark’s idea to put Bruce’s device on the ceiling. The fortress was built much like the cities of Krypton—with its center being the highest point. The cities of Krypton always erected their shrines to Rao at the highest points of their city—and given that Rao was the god of the sun, it seemed only suiting that this panel, which would help bring in more sunlight, would act as his shrine to Rao.

A few moments later, Bruce murmured, “Last one.”

After placing in the last screw, Clark tentatively released the panel. It stayed in place. He nearly sighed in relief. He rolled his shoulders, feeling free.

“The lever on that side opens it up, adjusting the amount of light. This side adjusts the angle of the rays,” Bruce said, pointing. “We should test it out.”

Clark raised himself higher, hand resting on the lever. Him on one side, Bruce on the other, the circular panel between them.

Working in unison, they adjusted the levers. As the panel unravelled, light poured through, travelling through the fortress. Clark turned his head, watching as the sunlight slowly filled the room. The device whirring lightly as Clark and Bruce worked together, its shutters opening up and unveiling the light hidden behind it, until the glow of the sun finally struck the statue—its gold luster shining brightly.

Clark wondered at the perfect unity of it all, the sun between him and Bruce perfectly reflecting on the globe raised between Jor-El and Lara’s joined hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this. I know it wasn't exactly a short story. I hope you all enjoyed it!
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